Chuck vs the Ring of Fire
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Team Chuck takes on a new mission in Los Angeles for the CIA, all the while dealing with the fallout of the ECOMCON mission.
1. Prologue

_**Author's note:** I know, I know, I said I'd be taking off until May, and here I am, the very next day, writing._

_What can I say. This idea has been gestating since halfway through "Seventh Day". When I have ideas, I have to write them, or I go crazy. Enjoy!_

* * *

**7:00 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
**

**Friday, March 1****st****, 2013**

**Studio City, California**

Chuck Bartowski was up early, as usual. It was his task to wake up every day and get the coffee going while Sarah made sure that the kids were ready for day care.

But the smell of coffee almost invariably brought Sarah wandering into the kitchen before she woke up the twins. "Mmmm," she said approvingly, smelling the coffee as she wandered into the kitchen.

"Good morning to you, too," Chuck replied amusedly. His very sleepy wife embraced him and laid her head against his chest, closing her eyes.

"Don't move," she muttered. "Going back to sleep here."

"I'm pretty sure that's not an option," Chuck said, laughing softly. "The kids have to be woken up and gotten ready for the day, and I have to go to work."

"Spoilsport," Sarah grumbled, squeezing him tight before releasing him. "Get me something to wake me up then."

"Yes, señora, allow me to be Juan Valdez," Chuck replied in a ridiculous accent. Pulling the pot off the coffeemaker, he poured a mug for Sarah.

She accepted it, and took a sip. "It's good," she approved. "It's been good ever since Will told you how to make Marine Corps coffee. What's the difference, anyway?"

"I was sworn to secrecy," Chuck replied, mock-zipping his mouth shut. What Major Will Williamson of the United States Marine Corps had taught him was very simple, but Chuck had sworn he would never share it with anyone.

"Punk," Sarah complained. "And I can't weasel it out of him, either."

"Kinda hard for a woman to seduce a gay Marine," Chuck laughed. Will Williamson had finally been able to stop living in the closet three months before when the President had convinced Congress to put a stop to "don't ask, don't tell."

"I can still seduce you, though," Sarah said with a smile. She ran her fingers through Chuck's hair, and gently traced her fingernails down behind the backs of his ears. His eyes involuntarily closed and he shuddered as she did that. His mouth dropped open just a little bit, and she seized on the opportunity.

Sarah kissed Chuck, ever-so-slyly snaking her tongue into his mouth and making him shudder again. She withdrew, and gently bit his bottom lip.

"Oooookay," he gasped. "You add a pinch of salt and a half teaspoon of brown sugar to the grounds."

"See," Sarah said with a smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Chuck was just about ready to say "to hell with the morning schedule" and let Sarah finish the whole seduction bit right then and there, but they were interrupted by a dull _thud_ that came from the direction of the living room window.

"What the hell?" Chuck asked, heading toward the front of the house. He opened the front door. A brick sat on the front porch, a note tied around it. Clearly, it had been meant to go through the front window, but CIA Director Sam Tyler had insisted on having bulletproof glass installed over a year prior.

But that wasn't Chuck's immediate concern. "Holy shit," Sarah said, as she stepped out the front door and saw the large burning circle on their front lawn.

Chuck grabbed the garden hose, turned on the spigot, and was quickly able to extinguish the flames on the grass that John Casey had worked so hard to make perfect. "Casey's gonna be pissed," Chuck groaned.

"I don't think that's our biggest problem," Sarah replied. She held out the note that had been tied around the brick.

Chuck took the note and read it. _You're a dead man, Bartowski_, it read. It was signed, _Anillo Del Fuego_.

"Okay," Chuck said, taking a deep breath. "This is definitely gonna be a problem."


	2. Cold Lonesome Morning

**One Year Earlier**

**2:59 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**March 8****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

Chuck had come somewhat awake when Sarah left the bed, and had stayed up, waiting for her return. When she didn't return after a few minutes, he grew a little concerned.

Then he heard voices down the hall. One was clearly Sarah. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but it didn't sound good.

And then he heard a voice that chilled him to the bone. It was General Beckman. "These two recognized me as being part of Fulcrum because they're little baby Intersects, aren't they?"

"Oh, God," Chuck whispered. He rolled across the bed to Sarah's side, praying she had her gun.

She didn't. The Colt M1911A1 was in the nightstand. Chuck grabbed it, and slowly crept out the door of the bedroom, down the hall toward the twins room.

"Imagine how much money I could make off of these two!" he heard Beckman continue. "How much do you think the Mossad would pay for a sixteen month old human Intersect? How about MI-6?"

"General, please, those are my CHILDREN," Sarah pleaded.

"You should have thought of that before destroying everything I worked for, Agent Walker," Beckman replied, with a fatal finality in her voice.

Chuck winced as he heard Beckman's gun go off. The bullet struck Sarah in the abdomen, and she staggered backward.

Chuck spun around, catching Sarah in his left arm as she fell, and bringing her Colt up in his right hand. As soon as it leveled with Beckman's chest, he pulled the trigger – once, twice, three times.

An enormous bloom of red appeared on Beckman's torso as she staggered backward. She slammed into the bulletproof window, looked down in disbelief – and then slumped to the floor, dead, leaving a streak of blood on the wall behind her.

John and Lisa were both bawling, but Chuck could barely hear them. He was too concerned for Sarah, as he laid her down on the floor.

"G-good shooting, b-babe," she whispered. She was bleeding heavily.

Chuck grabbed the receiving blanket off the changing table and folded it up. "Hold this against your stomach, HARD," he instructed her. "I know it might hurt, but you've gotta do it!"

Running back to the bedroom, he tossed the gun on the bed, and grabbed his iPhone. With hands shaking, he dialed John Casey's number. "Come on, pick up, pick up!" Chuck muttered as he went back out into the hallway where Sarah was.

"'llo?"

"Casey! It's Chuck. Sarah's been shot, and I have a dead former NSA director in my kids' bedroom."

"Shit," John Casey uttered. "Call 911. I'll be right there."

And the phone went dead. Chuck dialed again, and held the phone to his ear.

"911 Emergency Response, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"Uh, my wife's been shot… gunshot wound to the abdomen… she's a Caucasian female, twenty-nine years old, five foot nine, about a hundred thirty pounds…"

"Alright, sir, please remain calm. We have an ambulance on the way right now. What is your location?"

"4320 Saint Clair Avenue, in Studio City," Chuck said. Sarah's grip on his hand suddenly tightened, almost painfully so, and she whimpered in pain.

He looked down at her. Her face was white and contorted in pain, and blood was still seeping out from under the receiving blanket.

"Please hurry." Chuck pressed the end button on the iPhone.

He looked down at Sarah. "I'll be right back, babe," he said. "Keep holding that blanket on!"

"Okay," Sarah groaned, a sharp note of pain in her voice.

Chuck stood up and ran to his office. Throwing open the desk drawer, he grabbed a pair of scissors. He turned around and committed a cardinal sin, running with scissors, but he wasn't too concerned with that just at that moment.

He knelt back down next to Sarah. "I need you to pick the blanket up for just a second," he said.

"Hold the blanket, don't hold the blanket… make up your mind," Sarah whispered, trying to inject humor into a truly unfunny situation. But she did as she was told, and lifted the blanket up.

A fresh flow of blood greeted Chuck. "Goddammit," he muttered. He quickly used the scissors to cut Sarah's tank top up the front, and pulled it away from her chest.

The bullet wound astonished him. Whatever ammunition had been in General Beckman's gun had really done a number on Sarah's abdomen. "God almighty," he breathed. Grabbing Sarah's hand that held the blanket, he forcefully pressed it back down on the wound to stop the flow of blood again.

"Ow," she whimpered, a tear making its way down her cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking.

There was the sound of a key in the front door, and it swung open. John Casey came storming in like doomsday personified.

He turned into the hallway, and saw Sarah lying on the floor with Chuck over her. Casey took in the amount of blood on Sarah, on Chuck's hands, on the floor. "Jesus," he croaked.

Casey crouched on the floor next to Sarah. "You doin' okay, Walker?"

"Does it look like I'm doing okay, Casey?" she whispered back.

Casey looked at Chuck, making eye contact. Casey's expression was grim. Then he looked past Chuck, into the twins' bedroom.

Louisa Beckman's corpse was slumped against the opposite wall. "Okay, we gotta get that out of here," Casey said. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

"This is John Casey," he said when the phone was picked up. "I need a cleanup team at 4320 Saint Clair Avenue in Studio City, post haste."

He hung up the phone, as the sound of sirens announced the arrival of a Los Angeles Fire Department paramedic unit. "Go get dressed, Bartowski," Casey told him as the paramedics came running into the house. "You're gonna need to be in that ambulance with her."

"But… the kids…"

"I'll make sure the kids get to Ellie and Devin's," Casey assured him. "Go get dressed."

Chuck got up and staggered back to his bedroom. In a daze, he pulled on an old Buy More polo and a pair of jeans, and jammed his Blue Sun ballcap on his head. He slipped on a pair of flip-flops, and quickly went back out to the hallway, collecting his wallet and his keys as he went.

By the time he got back to where Sarah was, the paramedics were gently lifting her onto a gurney. One of them had placed a pressure pad on Sarah's abdomen, allowing her to remove the receiving blanket. She had started to lose color in every part of her body, not just her face, and that alarmed the hell out of Chuck.

The paramedics began to wheel Sarah out of the house, to the ambulance in the driveway. Chuck started to follow.

"Bartowski!"

Chuck turned back to see Casey, holding his iPhone out to him. "You probably want this."

"Thanks," Chuck replied, grabbing the phone.

"Chuck… keep me updated, okay?"

"I will, John," Chuck said, and turned and ran out the front door.

The ambulance ride over the hills and into West Hollywood seemed like it took forever, though in reality it was maybe fifteen minutes from the house to Cedars-Sinai. Chuck wanted to know why exactly they were going there.

"It's the closest hospital with a major trauma center," he was told.

Casey had apparently contacted CIA doctor and Cedars-Sinai OB/GYN Ronald Zinn, because he met them at the emergency room, still shaking off sleep. "What the hell happened?" he asked, as Sarah was rushed inside.

"Did you hear about General Louisa Beckman?" Chuck asked.

"I heard that she resigned. What about her?"

"She was Fulcrum," Chuck replied.

Zinn's eyes widened. "Holy crap."

"Yeah, well, she dropped off the grid after resigning, and popped up about an hour ago in our twins' bedroom. She blamed Sarah for everything, and decided it would be fun to shoot her. I returned the favor."

"You mean, General Beckman's dead?" Dr. Zinn asked.

"Yeah. And Sarah…"

Chuck's mouth tightened, and Dr. Zinn could see that it was taking a great deal of effort for him to stay composed.

"Sarah will be fine," Ronald Zinn told Chuck. "Cedars has got the best trauma staff in California. They'll take good care of her."

Chuck wished he had the doctor's confidence. He took a seat in the waiting room, becoming an anonymous face in a gigantic room of anonymity.

About an hour after they arrived, John Casey came in. "Any word yet?" he asked, making a beeline for Chuck.

Chuck just shook his head. Casey sighed and collapsed into the seat next to him.

"Beckman's gone," he told Chuck. "The DIA cleanup team has the twins' bedroom all cleaned up, and they're going to have somebody out to do the carpet in the hallway tomorrow.

"I took Lisa and John over to Ellie and Devin's apartment," he continued. "I told them what had happened, and they freaked out a little bit. Ellie wanted to come over here, but I convinced them that it would be better if they stayed home with the kids."

Chuck nodded. "Thanks, John," he said quietly, and then fell quiet again.

Casey didn't say anything else, leaving the younger man to his thoughts.

Just before 6:00 AM, Chuck's phone lit up with a text message. It was from an anonymous number.

_Chuck – heard about Sarah. Hang in there. BL_

Chuck wanted to know exactly how Bryce had heard about Sarah, but he figured that Bryce was probably still one of the most well-connected people in the CIA, even if he was working deep cover.

About fifteen minutes after that, the phone rang. It came from a number Chuck didn't recognize, in the 435 area code. He pressed the "answer" button. "Hello?"

"Chuck. It's Carina."

The DEA agent's voice lacked the usual flirtatiousness and cheekiness that it usually held. "Hi," he replied.

"Listen, I heard about Sarah. If there's anything I can do, please let me know, and I mean that seriously, not in my usual 'I'm trying to seduce you' sort of way."

And for some reason, the fact that both Bryce and Carina had taken the time to contact Chuck about this was starting to choke him up. "Thank you," he said softly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"You can reach me at this number, Chuck. Please, keep me updated."

Carina disconnected, and Chuck put the phone away. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Seemingly just as soon as he had closed them, they snapped open. "Chuck," he heard somebody say his name.

He looked around, disoriented. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and CIA Director Sam Tyler stood in front of him – wearing a flight suit.

"Director Tyler?" he asked, confused.

"Good morning, Bartowski," Tyler said, handing him a cup of coffee. "I heard about Walker and shanghaied an F-15 out of Langley. Got me here in two hours."

"Not bad," Chuck muttered, sitting up and stretching his back.

"Any word yet?" Tyler asked, sitting on Chuck's right. To Chuck's left, John Casey was also stirring.

"Not yet," Chuck replied. "But…"

He saw Ronald Zinn crossing the waiting room toward him, with another doctor in scrubs behind him. Neither of the doctors looked particularly happy, but neither did they look grim, which gave Chuck hope.

"Good morning, Chuck," Dr. Zinn said. "Colonel Casey, Director Tyler."

"Dr. Zinn," Tyler said.

"This is Dr. Mark Wathen," Dr. Zinn told them. "He was the lead surgeon working on Sarah, and he's got some news to share with you."

Drs. Zinn and Wathen sat down facing Chuck, and Chuck returned to his seat. "The good news," Dr. Wathen began, "is that your wife is going to be alright."

Chuck blew his breath out in relief, and hung his head, looking at the floor. "But," Dr. Wathen continued, "there was a large amount of damage. The bullet used was designed to do as much damage as possible. It flattened out on its way through your wife's abdomen, doing some serious damage to her liver and her right kidney, as well as destroying her spleen. When it exited her back, it nicked her spinal cord. There won't be any lasting damage, but it did cause nerve shock that may create difficulty in walking for her for a while."

Wathen didn't sound or look like he was finished. "What else?" Chuck asked. "Just tell me everything."

"Your wife was approximately four weeks pregnant," Wathen said. "I doubt if she knew, just as I'm sure you didn't know. However, the bullet penetrated and caused irreparable damage to your wife's uterus. We had to abort the pregnancy and perform a hysterectomy."

Chuck's face drained of color, and he leaned back in his seat. "Oh, God," he said softly, pressing his hands against his face. "That's gonna kill her."

"Mr. Bartowski, I assure you, your wife will physically be fine –"

"No," Chuck interrupted Dr. Wathen. "I mean, she's not going to take that very well. She wanted so badly to have at least one more kid…"

He sighed. "When can I see her?"

"Not for a couple of hours, at least," Dr. Wathen replied.

"Alright," Chuck said. "Just, don't tell her about the pregnancy, the hysterectomy. She needs to hear that from me.

"Even then, it's gonna tear her apart."


	3. You're the Nearest Thing to Heaven

**12:30 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**March 8****th****, 2012**

**Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Beverly Hills, California**

Sarah Walker felt like she was swimming. Swimming through a body of somewhat opaque… something.

There was light – just enough to see by. It gave her no sense of direction, no way to tell where she was going. So she just kept going forward.

Without warning, there was a sharp pain in her abdomen. She gasped.

With the pain, though, the light increased in one direction. She headed that way.

The pain didn't get any worse, it just stayed steady. But the light got brighter, brighter, brighter…

And finally, her eyes cracked open. She could see that she was in a hospital room. That made sense; the last thing she remembered was being unloaded from an ambulance outside of Cedars-Sinai, after getting shot by General Beckman.

That was probably why her stomach hurt, too. Getting shot and the surgery that likely followed would've done that to anybody.

She rolled her head to the left and saw the promised land – or, at least, a morphine drip. She knew that she could increase that, reduce the pain. However, she didn't have one of those handy dandy little morphine remotes, and for some reason, her arms just weren't cooperating to move to the control.

Sarah looked down toward the end of the bed. Chuck and Ellie stood there, speaking in low tones. She couldn't hear what they were saying, and it didn't appear that they noticed that she was awake.

"Hey," she tried to say, but nothing came out but air. She took a deep breath, made her mouth as wet as she possibly could, and forced out a croak that resembled, "Hey!"

Chuck and Ellie's heads both whipped toward her. "Water," she croaked.

Ellie grabbed a squeeze bottle off the table beside the bed. She put the straw into Sarah's mouth, and squeezed. Sarah sucked on it greedily.

When she had finally had enough, she nodded. "Leave the bottle," Sarah told Ellie, finally getting her left arm to respond to commands. She took the bottle in her hand, so that she would have water readily available.

"Would one of you mind seriously turning up my morphine drip?" Sarah asked. "My stomach, it is killing me."

"Not a problem," Ellie said, hitting a button to turn the drip up one notch. "It'll take a moment before you feel it – I don't want to overdo it and have you end up hooked."

"Probably a good call," Sarah replied. "Being a junkie mother is not on my list of things to do."

Ellie and Chuck both started to smile, but as soon as she finished her statement, both of their smiles grew strained. Something was wrong.

"What?" Sarah said. "Did I say something offensive?"

"Ummm…" Chuck spoke for the first time, and it was nothing more than a hesitation.

"Come on, guys, give it to me straight. Am I gonna live?" Sarah asked sarcastically.

Ellie sighed and put a hand to her forehead. "You're going to be fine," Dr. Woodcomb said. "It's just…"

Sarah groaned. "I really did not want to hear a 'it's just'," she said. "What's going on?"

Chuck took Sarah's right hand in his hands as Ellie spoke. "Sarah, you were four weeks pregnant when General Beckman shot you," Ellie said. "But… the bullet penetrated your uterus and did irreparable damage. They had to abort the pregnancy and perform a hysterectomy."

Sarah's eyes widened, and she felt like her breath had been sucked out of her by a vacuum. She moved her hands to her stomach, as if she could actually feel the fact that the part of her that could create life was gone.

"No," she whimpered. "No, it can't be. Chuck? Please tell me that it's not true!"

She looked up at Chuck, and the desperation on her face broke his heart. He already had tears streaming down his face, and the look on her face was almost too much for him to handle. He tried to say something, but no words would come, so he just nodded.

* * *

John Casey and Devin Woodcomb were sitting in the hallway outside of Sarah Walker Bartowski's room. Neither of them was prepared for the ear-splitting scream that came from within.

Both men leaped out of their chairs, and burst into the room. Sarah's heart monitor was beeping furiously, and the IV line that her morphine drip was mounted on had ripped out of her arm, leaving a small stream of blood running down her arm.

Sarah herself had started hyperventilating, and Chuck and Ellie were both having to physically restrain her to keep her from hurting herself. Her face was bright red, and when she was able to collect her breath, she screamed again.

"WHY?!"

That was enough. Casey reached out and hit the nurse call button, while Devin stuck his head out the door.

"YOU!" he shouted at a nurse down the hall. "I need a sedative in here, stat!"

The nurse nodded, and dashed off. A moment later, she reappeared, syringe in hand, with Dr. Wathen and Dr. Zinn hot on her heels.

The nurse ran into the room, and went directly to Sarah's bedside. "Hold her arm down!" she ordered Chuck, who grabbed Sarah's arm and held it to the bed. The nurse stabbed the needle into Sarah's bicep and depressed the plunger.

Almost immediately, Sarah stopped thrashing around and her breathing slowed. The heart monitor started to slow as well, and her eyelids drooped. The nurse reinserted the IV line.

"I think she might need a little rest," the nurse told them all.

Nobody dared argue with her, not after what had just happened. Chuck, Ellie, Devin, and Casey all exited to the hallway. Dr. Zinn and Dr. Wathen stayed in the room for a moment, checking Sarah's sutures, making sure she hadn't torn anything open. A moment later, they joined the other four in the hallway.

Chuck was white and shaking. "Mr. Bartowski, are you alright?" asked Dr. Wathen, a look of concern on his face.

"I… I'll be okay," Chuck replied softly. "I just… I can't stand seeing her like that."

Dr. Wathen nodded his head. "Did that happen after you broke the news?"

"Yeah," Chuck said. "We told her, and she just snapped. I thought she had gone around the bend."

"She likely did, very briefly," Dr. Zinn replied. "It's called a psychotic episode. It's very unlikely she'll remember any of it, and I imagine it'll be a one time occurrence. She'll probably remember everything up until it – including the fact that you told her about the pregnancy and the hysterectomy, but she won't remember the episode itself."

"We'll want to have a psych analysis to be sure," Dr. Wathen added, "but I doubt if you'll see something like this again. It was probably just the shock of the news so shortly after the trauma of being shot that caused it."

Chuck held his head in his hands. "What can I do?"

"Surround her with family and friends," Wathen replied. "The people she knows and loves. It might be helpful to have your children here the next time she wakes up – and you'll have a few hours, because I think I'd like to keep her under until this evening at least."

"Whatever you think is best," Chuck replied, nodding.

As Drs. Wathen and Zinn walked away, Chuck looked up at his sister, his brother-in-law, and his chief protector. "I need to make a couple of phone calls, guys."

He stood, and walked down the hall away from them. Pulling his iPhone from his belt, he brought up the text message from Bryce. He didn't know if a reply would go through, but he knew he was going to try.

_Need you in L.A., now_ was the message. He hit send, and while he was scrolling through recent calls for the number he needed, he got a reply.

_Be there tonight – BL._

"Thank you, Bryce," Chuck whispered, as he found the number and hit the call button.

"Hansen, secure," he heard on the other end.

"Carina, it's Chuck."

"Chuck! How's Sarah?"

Chuck sighed. "She's okay… but she really needs a lot of moral support right now. Can you come to Los Angeles?"

"Of course," Carina replied. "God, are you sure she's alright? I mean, for you to voluntarily drag me into this… that must be pretty bad."

"I'll tell you about it when you get here," Chuck replied.

"Alright, Chuck. I'll be there in a few hours."

Chuck hung up, and then dialed 411. When the operator picked up, he said, "Boston, Massachusetts, the Beacon Hill Convalescent Home."

"One moment while we connect your call."

After two rings, the phone was picked up. "Good afternoon, thank you for calling the Beacon Hill Convalescent Home. How may I direct your call?"

Chuck sighed. "I need to speak to Sergeant Major Marcus Lind Reynolds, please."

"May I tell the Sergeant Major who's calling?"

"Yes, this is his son-in-law, Charles Bartowski."

"Just a moment, please, Mr. Bartowski."

He was put on hold, and he almost laughed at the oddity of hearing an elevator version of the Eagles while on hold. Then the phone was picked up again.

"This is Reynolds."

"Mark, it's Chuck Bartowski."

"Chuck!" the retired Army Sergeant Major said. "How's it going?"

"Not well, sir," Chuck replied, picking his words delicately. He had to be very careful to not set off one of Marcus Reynolds' mental episodes. "Um, your daughter is in the hospital, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd be able to come out here, sir."

He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end. "Why is she in the hosp – no, you know what, don't tell me. I don't want to set off one of my episodes. I'll talk to the folks here, and I'll be on the first flight to Los Angeles that I can get on."

"We'll be waiting for you, sir."

* * *

**7:00 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

Dr. Zinn had arranged for Chuck to borrow one of Cedars-Sinai's small classrooms. That was the advantage to being a teaching hospital – plenty of meeting space.

And they needed it. As Chuck sat in the front of the room next to Dr. Wathen, he watched as a dozen adults and three toddlers filed into the room – Mark Reynolds, Casey, Ellie, Devin, Morgan, Anna, Bryce, Rachel Harrison (who had flown Bryce), Carina, Mitch Tucker (who had flown Carina), Sam Tyler, Senator Art Graham, and Katie Woodcomb, John, and Lisa– all three of whom had come with Morgan and Anna. John and Lisa seemed to immediately identify Mark as "Grandpa", and gravitated toward him.

"Hi, everybody," Chuck said. He could hear his own exhaustion in his voice – he'd been up for nearly sixteen hours, with only fitful bits of sleep, after perhaps three hours the night before. "Um, as some of you are aware, we had a home invasion this morning. An individual who wanted to abduct John and Lisa infiltrated our house.

"John and Lisa began talking when she entered their room. Sarah heard them, and went to investigate. The intruder shot Sarah in the stomach. I had just gone into the hallway, and when the intruder shot Sarah, I entered the room and shot the intruder. The intruder was killed."

He could see the faces of his friends and family as they reacted. Each one was different – but Mark Reynolds seemed to have grown a face of stone. "I'm going to let Dr. Mark Wathen explain what happened from that point," Chuck said.

Wathen stood. "Like Chuck said, my name is Mark Wathen. I'm one of the lead trauma surgeons here at Cedars-Sinai.

"Mrs. Bartowski was brought in just before four o'clock this morning with a gunshot wound to her abdomen. The bullet that was fired into her was designed to flatten and cause maximum damage before exiting. In this case, it caused damage to her liver and right kidney, shredded her spleen, and nicked her spine. There should be no lasting effects from any of those injuries."

Dr. Wathen sighed. "It also penetrated her uterus. Mrs. Bartowski was four weeks pregnant at the time; unfortunately, we had to terminate the pregnancy and perform a hysterectomy."

Several gasps were heard at that point. Mark Reynolds closed his eyes. "My baby girl," he whispered. "My poor baby girl."

"When Mrs. Bartowski awakened this afternoon, her husband and her sister-in-law, who as you know, is herself an M.D., informed her of what had occurred. The shock of being told caused her to have a psychotic episode, and we had to sedate her. We believe that she should be fine; however, her mental state right now is such that it was suggested to Mr. Bartowski that it would be wise to have as many of her friends and family here as possible – thus why you're here."

"Can we see her?" Mark Reynolds asked. His two grandchildren, sitting on his knees, both started asking, "Mama? Mama?"

"Of course," Dr. Wathen replied. "However, I think it would be best if you only went in no more than two at a time."

* * *

The nurse opened the door and turned the lights on low. "I wouldn't recommend any more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes," she said.

Mark Reynolds and Chuck Bartowski stepped into Sarah's room, each with a child in their arms. Aside from being a little pale, Sarah looked fine physically – her wound and surgery scars were covered by the blanket and by her gown.

As if she sensed their presence in the room, she began to stir, and she opened her eyes. The first person she saw was her father.

"Daddy?" she whispered, sounding for all the world like a little girl.

"I'm here, baby," he said, doing his best to fight back tears. He knelt by the bed, setting John on the edge of the bed, and hugged Sarah.

"Mama," John said quietly, and crawled up to Sarah to wrap his arms around her.

"Mama?" Lisa asked, looking plaintively up at Chuck. Chuck nodded, and set her down on the bed as well. Lisa crawled up to join her brother.

Sarah's eyes filled with tears as she pulled back from her father and wrapped her arms around her twin children. She hugged them tight, as if she would never let them go again.

"I love you two so much," she sobbed.

"Alavu, Mama," Lisa replied, which only made Sarah cry even harder.

After a moment, her tears subsided. She looked up at Chuck, face red and eyes shining.

"Chuck, what are we gonna do? I… I wanted these two to have a little brother… or a little sister… and now that – that can nev-"

She couldn't finish her sentence, and broke down in tears again. Chuck, who himself was on the verge of losing it at that point, knelt down next to her, and wrapped her and the twins in a hug.

He stayed there for the rest of their time, until the nurse came back and told them that they needed to go. "Bye bye Mama," the twins both told her. Sarah kissed them both and very reluctantly let her husband and her father take them.

Chuck and Mark exited into the hallway, where they turned the twins over to Ellie and Devin. Mark looked Chuck in the eyes, and didn't say anything for a moment.

"Chuck," he finally said, voice gruff, "thank you for taking care of my little girl. Thank you for taking down the bastard who did this to her."

"I should've been able to keep it from happening," Chuck said softly.

Mark Reynolds shook his head and put his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "You can't think like that," he said quietly. "That's what I thought for so long after my wife died, and it landed me in a convalescent home with a mental problem."

He paused for a moment. "You've got to remember that you did everything you could, and because of that, my little Beth is alive, and she'll be okay. You protected her, and you protected my two grandchildren. A man really can't ask for much more than that."

Chuck nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Now, you need to get some rest. You need to be able to take care of her."

"I agree completely, Chuck," Ellie said, standing and gently taking Chuck's arm in her hands. "You need to go home, and you need to get some sleep."

As she and Chuck walked down the hall, Katie in her arms and Devin behind them with the twins, she leaned over to Chuck and quietly asked, "Beth?"

"Her real name," Chuck replied. "Elizabeth Lisa Reynolds."

Ellie looked thoughtful for a moment, and then spoke. "I think I like Sarah Walker better."

Chuck smiled tiredly. "I really don't care," he said. "I love her, no matter what her name is."


	4. The Last Gunfighter Ballad

_**Author's Note:** God, the exposition on this story is taking for-flipping-ever. I promise you, the exposition will end soon, and we'll get into the real meat and potatoes.  
_

* * *

Chuck took Sarah's father back to their house with him and the kids. When Mark Reynolds offered to just crash on the floor of the living room, though, Chuck nearly had a seizure.

"There is no possible way, sir," he said. "I insist that you take the master bedroom. I have a highly comfortable couch in my office that I've fallen asleep on on more than one occasion."

All of the other out-of-town guests had gotten rooms at the Days Inn a mile from Chuck's house, at Coldwater Canyon and Ventura. Though Chuck had been happy to be hospitable, he was secretly relieved that he didn't have to host anybody outside his own family.

Chuck lay down on the couch in the Nerd Cave just before 9:00 PM. The kids were in bed, and his father-in-law had kindly offered to take care of them should one of them wake up during the night.

Chuck was exhausted. He had been up for probably ninety percent of the prior forty hours, and his brain was shot. He needed something to fall asleep to.

Getting back up, he slipped the first _Firefly_ disc into his DVD player, and lay back down. "Serenity" started up.

The last thing Chuck remembered before falling asleep was Wash saying, "Mine is an evil laugh!"

* * *

**7:50 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**March 9****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

The insistent ringing of the doorbell penetrated through to Chuck's subconsciousness, pulling him kicking and screaming from his dreamless state of sleep.

As his sleep-encrusted eyes cracked open, Chuck could smell coffee brewing, and then the doorbell stopped ringing. A moment later, there was a knock on the door of the Nerd Cave.

"'s minute," he slurred. He was having a difficult time waking up.

Standing, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall. He looked frightening. His hair had gone from funny animal shapes to Noah's entire Ark. There was dried drool running down from the left hand side of his mouth. His eyes looked like the Sandman had poured an entire bucket on him.

"Eh, to hell with it," he muttered. He pulled open the door, to see his father-in-law, Sam Tyler, and Art Graham standing there.

The current and former CIA directors looked at him. "Wow," Sam Tyler uttered. "That may be the most disturbing thing I've ever seen."

Chuck gave Tyler the evil eye. "What do you want?"

Art Graham spoke up. "We want you to go take a shower, so that you're feeling more human when we talk to you. In the meantime, we'll go have a cup of coffee with your father-in-law. That alright with you?"

"Whatever," Chuck grumbled. He was too tired for this bullshit.

As Chuck stood under the stream of hot water, he listened to KROQ. It was Friday morning, which meant Kevin and Bean. At 8:00, though, Doc came on with the morning news. When he mentioned a Congressional investigation surrounding the ECOMCON protocol, Chuck's eyes rolled back and he flashed on the ECOMCON documents again.

When the flash ended, he rubbed his face with his hands, and then reached out and shut the radio off. "I am so sick and tired of this," he muttered.

After showering, Chuck looked in the mirror and started to shave. As he shaved, he decided he was going to leave his goatee and mustache alone. After three days without shaving, they had started to grow fairly thick, and he wondered how they would look – what Sarah would think of them.

Toweling off, he went into his bedroom, pulled on an Atari t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and headed out to the kitchen. Graham, Tyler, and Sarah's dad all sat there, drinking coffee and talking current events, of all things. Lisa and John sat in their high chairs, alternating eating Cheerios and throwing them at each other.

A fourth coffee mug sat on the table, full and still steaming. "I'm assuming this is for me," Chuck said, picking it up and taking a sip. "Ahhhh…"

He turned his attention to Sam Tyler and Art Graham. "Okay, what do you want?"

Graham looked uneasily at Mark Reynolds. "Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Sarah's father," Chuck said. "I don't actually hold a clearance myself, remember?"

Graham and Tyler looked at each other. Tyler shrugged. "Go for it," he said.

Graham sighed. "Alright, Chuck, here's the deal. The President is in the process of ripping out the NSA's guts. We believe that every federal intelligence agency is still penetrated by Fulcrum agents at one level or another. We need to construct a small inter-agency force that is not strictly within the government's purview that takes on sensitive tasks that the government doesn't necessarily want to be associated with."

"Like Rainbow," Chuck interrupted.

"Like what?"

"Rainbow," Chuck said again. "You know, Tom Clancy? The book? Video games?"

Graham and Tyler both looked back at him, neither understanding. "Torchwood?" Chuck tried.

"Ah," Tyler said, nodding, but Graham still looked confused. Chuck thought hard, trying to come up with a comparison that the Senator would understand.

"The Foundation of Law and Government?" Chuck tried.

"Oh, I get what you're saying," Graham said, the _Knight Rider_ reference registering. "Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. Now, given your involvement with the government and your personal business success, Sam Tyler and I think you would be the ideal person to be in charge of it. You and your entire team would be well compensated, of course."

Chuck nodded. "So we'd be mercenaries."

Graham winced at the term. "Well, not per se…"

"We'd essentially be independent contractors, correct?" Chuck asked. Graham nodded. "And we'd be performing potentially dangerous tasks, and being paid for them, correct?" Graham nodded again.

"How does that not make us mercenaries?"

Graham sighed. "I guess it does," he finally admitted.

"Thank you for being honest," Chuck replied. "If I choose to take this on, you let me choose my team, correct?"

"Actually," Sam Tyler said, "we figure your entire team is already here. You need intelligence agents who are highly trained in combat – you've got three agents in town. John Casey, Bryce Larkin, Carina Hansen."

"Wait, wait, wait," Chuck objected. "Casey's assigned in town, but Carina's doing drug enforcement and Bryce is hunting Fulcrum."

"And you think your team can't do both of those things?" Tyler asked. "We take those two off the books, it becomes immediately easier for them to get away with more… extreme measures."

"You need pilots, we'll get you Commander Harrison. We'll get Major Williamson reassigned," Graham added. "Medical… you're gonna hate the suggestion, but I'd say you should talk to your sister or your brother-in-law."

Chuck stared at Graham. "I'll… think about it. Don't we need, like, muscle? Weapons and combat experts?"

"Talk to Master Sergeant Tucker," Tyler said. "I guarantee you he'd jump at the chance to get a job NOT in Moab that pays as well or better. And as far as a weapons expert…"

Tyler looked over at Graham, who looked downward and bit his lip. "Chuck," Graham said, "within the Central Intelligence Agency, there's a legend among the younger recruits and agents. It's a legend of this deep-cover operative who could do anything, anywhere. She was a rebel, but she got the job done, every time, and there was nobody better. She was like an American James Bond.

"There's a good reason why Sarah Walker is a legend, Chuck," Graham finished. "She was the best. She probably still is the best."

Chuck looked at Graham in disbelief. "Sarah Walker is lying in a hospital bed in Beverly Hills," he finally said, his voice low and dangerous. "She was shot thirty hours ago. She is currently grieving the fact that she will never again be able to bear a child. I hardly think she is the ideal individual for this sort of task."

"Uh, if I may," Mark Reynolds said, leaning forward, "if there's one thing I know about my daughter, it's that there's nothing better to get her to move her life along than to present her with a new challenge. It'll help her get back on track, to not think about whatever frustrations or problems she's going through."

Chuck looked back at his father-in-law, unable to comprehend the words that had just come out of his mouth. "Say what now?"

Reynolds shrugged. "Give her some credit, Chuck. Just because she's a wife and a mother doesn't mean she isn't still a very capable woman. She's only twenty-nine, for God's sake."

Chuck had effectively been cornered, by probably the only two men in the world who knew Sarah anywhere near as well as Chuck did. He leaned forward slowly and gently rested his head on the table.

He sat there, just looking at the table for a moment. "You say we get paid for the jobs we do," he finally said. "Do we also have an operating budget?"

"In a sense," Senator Graham replied. "We've decided to pull the plug on the Intersect project."

That got Chuck's attention very quickly. "What?!" he asked, shocked, as he sat back up.

"Not pull the plug on you," Tyler added quickly. "Just on the computer version of the Intersect. It's hopelessly bug-ridden, and nowhere near as efficient as you."

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay."

"Anyway," Graham continued, "as far as the budget is concerned, the Intersect project is going to continue – but its annual twenty million dollar budget will be going to your team. Since you are the human Intersect, then technically, the money is not being misappropriated – it's still going to the Intersect project."

Chuck's jaw had dropped at the "twenty million dollar" part. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then finally whispered, "Twenty MILLION dollars annually?"

"It disappears a lot more quickly than you might think," Tyler replied. "But you'll also have the payoffs from the different missions."

Chuck was dumbfounded. "Twenty MILLION dollars?!"

Tyler and Graham both laughed. "Yes, we're serious here," Graham said. "So, what do you want to call this thing?"

"I have… no idea," Chuck replied. "Maybe… um, something innocuous… how about Studio City Consulting Services?"

Tyler thought about it for a moment. "I like it," he finally said. "Non-descript, innocent, easy to remember – SCCS – and you can make a snappy logo out of it, too."

"Because that's important," Graham cracked.

Chuck shook his head. "You know what… I'll do it," he said. "I always wanted to have my own K.I.T.T., anyway."

"Yeah, you don't have that kind of a budget, Bartowski," Graham replied, and then stood. "Thank you, Chuck. Sergeant Major Reynolds." He turned and left the kitchen.

Sam Tyler had begun to stand as well, and then reached inside his jacket and withdrew what looked like a brochure. He handed it to Chuck.

"You should look into this, Chuck," he said. "My wife and I can't have kids, so we decided to look into adoption. If you and Sarah really want to have another kid, well… there's thousands of babies just in Los Angeles County that are looking for a home."

Chuck looked at the front of the brochure. Three smiling babies stared back at him. He looked back up at Tyler.

"Thanks, Director Tyler," he said. "I'll talk to her about it… but I think we might want to wait a while."

"I understand," the director replied. "Just… don't wait too long. I think you and Agent Walker are really very good parents, and I wouldn't want that to change."

"It won't," Chuck promised. "Believe me, it won't."


	5. I Walk the Line

Sarah had ended up spending a solid two weeks in the hospital after the shooting. One of her incisions had gotten infected three days after the surgery, and that had contributed to her extended stay.

While she was in the hospital, March 11th came and went. It wasn't until the 14th that she realized that he hadn't fulfilled something she had done every year for the previous seven years – she hadn't called Piers de Klerk's mother in South Africa on the 11th.

Piers de Klerk had been the first man – aside from her father – who Sarah had ever said, "I love you" too and meant it. Half an hour after she told him that, he was dead – a victim of the Madrid commuter train bombings of March 11th, 2004.

Sarah had gone to his funeral in Johannesburg, and met his mother for the first time there. After that, Sarah had called Francine de Klerk each year on March 11th. Even on her honeymoon, even when she was pregnant – she had always made sure to do it.

So when she realized on March 14th that she hadn't done it, she was mortified. She begged the hospital to let her make an international call, and being Cedars-Sinai, they acceded to her request.

The phone rang several times before it was picked up. "Hello?" came the very sleepy voice of Francine de Klerk.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, I forgot about the time difference," Sarah said, not even saying who it was disturbing the sleep of the South African woman.

"Sarah?" Francine said, recognizing her voice. "Is that you?"

"Hi, Francine," Sarah said in reply. "It's me."

"I was starting to get worried," Francine de Klerk said. "When you didn't call on the 11th, and there was no e-mail, no letter, nothing, I was afraid something had gone terribly wrong."

"Well, I'm actually in the hospital," Sarah replied.

Francine was shocked. "The hospital? It's not another baby is it?"

Sarah was stricken. When she didn't say anything for a moment, Francine softly said, "Sarah? Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry…" Sarah finally forced out. "A week ago… somebody broke into my house. They were going to kidnap my children… and they shot me. Chuck shot the intruder."

"Oh my God!" Francine exclaimed. "Well, thank God you're alright now!"

Sarah sighed heavily. "That's the thing," she said, trying her best not to break down in tears. "I was… I was…"

She couldn't bring herself to say it. "You were what?" Francine asked.

Then she put two and two together. Sarah falling silent after the question about the baby, and then saying what she just had.

"Oh, no," Francine de Klerk breathed. "Oh, Sarah. Oh, I am so sorry."

"And I… I can't have any more," Sarah forced out, bursting into tears.

Ten thousand miles away from Sarah, Francine de Klerk put her free hand to her face. "Oh, you poor girl," she said. "I can't believe…"

Sarah didn't say anything for a while, she just cried. Finally, she composed herself, and said, "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to call you just to break down."

"Don't apologize," Francine replied. "That… that's something a woman should never have to suffer. And I'm sure it's only a small comfort if any, but you can always talk to me about it… I know what it's like to lose a child."

"I know," Sarah sniffed. "You… you're the first person that I've actually told… my husband's been the one who had to tell everybody else. I think he's almost as devastated as I am."

"Just remember that he's there, Sarah. I'm sure he loves you, and I'm sure your children love you."

* * *

After Sarah got out of the hospital, she had to undergo two months of physical therapy. When the bullet nicked her spine, it had, just as Dr. Wathen said, caused nerve shock that disrupted her nervous system in her lower body.

Essentially, she had to relearn how to walk. Fortunately, she had been in such good shape beforehand that a sort of "muscle memory" had helped that process along – although her muscles themselves suffered greatly during essentially two months of inactivity, and she seemed to shrink before Chuck's very eyes.

He began to worry about Sarah. On top of the muscle atrophy, she hadn't been eating very much. She seemed unhappy much of the time – between what the shooting had caused and her inability to be active, she appeared to be spiraling into depression.

The thing was, Chuck had too much on his plate. He had overcommitted himself, and he hadn't left the time to take care of his wife. He had spent the last two months creating Studio City Consulting Services, Inc., and putting the company together. He had brought in and interviewed John Casey, Carina Hansen, Rachel Harrison, Bryce Larkin, Mitch Tucker, and Will Williamson. He had told them all that if they came to work for SCCS, they would have to resign their government positions and essentially take private sector jobs.

He had brought both Ellie and Devin onboard, with the promise that they would be able to establish their own private practice within the SCCS building – something that didn't actually exist yet. Against Sam Tyler's judgment, Chuck had decided to bring in Morgan as well, saying that Morgan was actually the king of organization and administration, and that a company like this was going to need it.

Weapons had been purchased, equipment acquired. Casey's Lear 35J was essentially "drafted", and the US government provided a Dassault Falcon 7X, much like the plane that had ferried Sarah around the world years before, the only existing model of the Sukhoi S-21 supersonic business jet, and a Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawk helicopter. On May 17th, Chuck was at home working on acquiring vehicles when he noticed something wrong.

Sarah seemed to have lost interest in her own children. Chuck realized that it had probably happened a while before, but he'd been so busy that he hadn't even noticed. However, he did notice when they climbed up on the couch and wanted to hug Mama, and she listlessly embraced them, and then turned away.

His realization was compounded that night when she came out of the shower. He didn't realize just how much weight she had lost, but she was as thin as a bone. He could clearly see her ribs, and the musculature he had once admired so much was wasting away to practically nothing.

Chuck didn't say anything that night. When she crawled into bed, he wordlessly curled up behind her and wrapped her in his arms. She cried herself to sleep that night, as she had so many before.

The next morning, he called her father. "Sarah's not doing well," he told Mark Reynolds. "She's lost a lot of weight, and I think she might be developing clinical depression."

He could hear his father-in-law sigh at the other end. "I was afraid that that would happen," Reynolds said. "You know, it killed her mother. You can't let it happen to her."

"Not a chance in hell, sir."

Chuck drove Sarah down to Beverly Hills that day, under the pretext of visiting the Beverly Center. However, when he turned right off of San Vicente into Cedars-Sinai instead of left into the mall, she turned and looked at him.

"Why are we here?"

Chuck didn't say anything, just continued driving, turning left into a parking structure.

"Chuck. Why are we here?" Sarah demanded.

He pulled the Dodge station wagon into a parking spot and put it into park, then turned to face her.

"Pull down the mirror and look at yourself," he instructed.

She looked at him quizzically, but did so, pulling down the visor and opening the mirror.

"It's me," she said. "What's going on?"

Chuck sighed, then reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. Opening it, he pulled out a picture of Sarah that he had had since the first month he'd known her. "This is you five years ago," he said. "Hold it up next to the mirror and look again."

Sarah did so – and involuntarily gasped. "Oh my God."

Her face had thinned considerably. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow. Eyes bloodshot. Hair thin and brittle.

She looked down at her body. "What have I done to myself?"

"That's why we're here," Chuck replied. "You have an appointment in fifteen minutes to see Dr. Wathen. I'll stay with you, but you have to do this. For Lisa's sake, for John's sake, for my sake, but most of all, for your own. You can't go on living the way you have been."

Sarah nodded numbly. Chuck got out of the car, then went around and opened her door for her. She got out, and walked into the building with her.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were still in Dr. Wathen's office. He had measured her height, her weight, and taken her blood pressure and temperature. He had run a battery of different tests. Now, he had a very worried look on his face.

"Mrs. Bartowski," he began, and then stopped. He sighed. "You are in very poor health. Your organs have all recovered quite well from the shooting and surgery. The nerves in your legs have regained approximately 97 percent of electrical capacity.

"However, your bone density is terrible. You are clearly malnourished. You are fatigued. Under no circumstances should somebody who stands five foot nine inches tall EVER weigh one hundred two pounds."

Sarah's face was a picture of shock as she registered everything Dr. Wathen was telling her. "Mrs. Bartowski, what has your diet consisted of lately?"

"Well, it, um…" Her face took on a look of curiosity. "I really don't know."

"That's what I was afraid of," he said. "I'm going to refer you to a nutritionist and a psychiatrist. You need somebody to get your body healthy again, and it's pretty clear to me that you need somebody to get your mind healthy again."

The nutritionist placed Sarah on a high protein, high carbohydrate, absolutely zero caffeine diet. She had protested that, saying that she needed coffee. The nutritionist told her in very kind, very clinical terms to get over it.

After about two weeks on recommended base foods, Chuck had cooked Sarah a high protein, high carbohydrate meal of the type she had often craved when she was pregnant with the twins. A rather sizable New York strip steak, cooked medium rare, was accompanied by a gigantic baked potato and corn on the cob. When Chuck set it in front of her, the scents set off a rush of saliva and a stab of hunger, and yet she didn't seem to have an appetite.

She pushed the food around her plate, nibbling at the corn, but not much else. Finally, Chuck slammed his silverware down on the table, and said, "Okay, look. I am not just going to sit here and watch while you do nothing with your life. If you're going to act like a small child… well, I'm gonna treat you like a small child."

"I BEG your pardon?" she asked angrily. She started to stand up.

"Oh, SIT DOWN," Chuck snapped. "Your personal behavior has barely improved in the last two weeks. I've been in those psychotherapy sessions – I've heard what the doctor tells you! You aren't doing what you need to!"

Sarah tried to laugh off what Chuck was saying. "Don't forget, I still know over a hundred ways to kill you."

"Yeah, and I doubt if you have the physical strength to utilize a goddamn one of them," Chuck replied angrily. "I sit here, I watch as you waste away. You don't want to interact with your own children. That's why I took you to the hospital. That's why Dr. Wathen referred you to those specialists. But I will be damned if I'm gonna let you do to yourself what your mother did to herself."

Sarah's head snapped up and she looked at Chuck, fire blazing in her eyes. "How DARE you!"

"How dare I?!" Chuck responded. "How DARE YOU! You are CONSTANTLY SURROUNDED by people who love you, and yet you close yourself off! You lock yourself away in your mind, and you won't let anybody near you! I feel more distant from you now than I did when you were my CIA handler!"

That last phrase hit Sarah like a physical blow. She felt almost as if she couldn't breathe for a moment. When she finally spoke, she heard the voice of scared, teenaged Beth Reynolds – not her voice, not the one she was used to.

"Is that how you really feel, Chuck?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Yes… no… dammit, Sarah, I love you. I've loved you for years. I will never stop loving you. You mean so much to me, which is why the way you've been acting makes me so goddamn angry."

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. "I'm sorry…"

The words were so soft that Chuck could barely hear them. He reached out his hand and wiped the tear from her face, then leaned in and embraced her, touching his forehead to hers. "Don't be sorry," he whispered. "Be Sarah."

She looked up into his eyes. "What do I do?"

He smiled slightly and leaned back a little. "You can start by eating your dinner."

"I don't know, Chuck, I just don't seem to have the appetite."

Chuck's smile faded again. Picking up Sarah's fork and knife, he cut off a half dozen bite sized chunks of steak. "I told you that I would treat you like a child, if I had to," he said.

A slight smile reappeared on his lips. "Now open up the hangar, and let the airplane in," he ordered.

Sarah began to smile as well. "The airplane?"

"Come on, the airplane wants to come home!"

John and Lisa were watching the whole thing. "Voom voom, Mama!" John called out.

Sarah laughed, and Chuck snuck the chunk of steak into her mouth. Surprised, she bit down… and then felt her appetite bloom like a sunflower as the juices ran through her mouth.

"Ohhhh…" she moaned, almost orgasmically, as she ate the chunk of steak. "What the hell was I thinking?"

She grabbed the fork and knife out of Chuck's hands, and began to eat voraciously. Five minutes later, her plate was clean.

"Holy shit," Chuck breathed. "That might be a new speed record!"

"Hoey shit!" Lisa exclaimed, laughing.

"No no!" Chuck shouted. "We don't say that word!"

"Shit shit!" John laughed.

"God da- I mean, rats," Chuck spat.

Sarah smiled. "Okay. I'm gonna try to change back to the way things were. But I'm gonna need your help."

"I know," Chuck replied. "And I'm going to be a more attentive husband. I should have realized what was going on a long time ago."

"It seems like you've been really busy, though," Sarah said. "Speaking of which, what have you been up to?"

Chuck looked at her pensively. "I was going to wait till you were in better health, but I might as well tell you."

He sat and explained all about Director Tyler and Senator Graham commissioning SCCS. He told her about its formation, about who he had recruited. He told her about the equipment he'd acquired so far.

"So all I need now is a building, and one last individual," Chuck finished. "A highly trained expert who is proficient in combat and undercover operations. Somebody who was once called the CIA's own James Bond."

He looked into Sarah's eyes with an intense burning in his own. "This is your chance, Sarah," he said. "This is your chance to be deep cover operative and mother, all at the same time."

Chuck paused. "But I need you healthy. I need to you commit yourself to our family again. I need you to commit yourself to me. Can you do that?"

Sarah took a deep breath, and blew it out again, then slowly nodded. "Three years ago, I said that I would stick with you as long as we lived," she said softly. "I'm not gonna back out on that now."

Chuck smiled. "I never for one moment thought you would."


	6. Man In Black

**8:00 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Sunday, June 10****th****, 2012**

**California Highway 23 & Mulholland Highway, Malibu, CA**

Sarah Walker sat alone in the driver's seat of her 2006 Porsche 911. She hadn't driven the car since before the shooting. She certainly hadn't gotten the chance to really open it up on the road… well, since before she knew she was pregnant with the twins.

Chuck had thought that it might be therapeutic for her to be able to do so. She had spent the last three weeks rebuilding her strength and her body. Already back up to 120 pounds, her muscle tone was slowly starting to return, and that made her happy.

And now, she was going to get to drive like a maniac. It had been FAR too long since she'd gotten to do this.

Mulholland turned left and became CA-23 at this intersection, and Sarah was just waiting – waiting till she knew she'd have a clear stretch of road ahead of her. After five minutes had gone by with no cars in either direction, she let up off the clutch and pressed the accelerator, the 3.6 liter turbocharged six cylinder engine growling in anticipation.

Sarah slowly brought the car up to thirty miles per hour in first gear, revving the engine to 5400 RPMs. Then she pushed in the clutch, shifted to second gear, and away she went.

The Porsche shot up to sixty in the blink of an eye. Sarah didn't let off the accelerator, shifting into third as she approached the curve ahead. Gently applying the handbrake, she slingshot the Porsche around the curve. Shifting into fourth, she accelerated up to eighty, laughing with glee as she did so.

Zipping around another curve, she came upon a straightaway of at least half a mile. She shifted the Porsche into fifth, and then into sixth, pushing her speed past the century mark. It kept climbing… 110… 120… 130…

Sarah was positively in heaven, and then there was a pop. "What the hell?" she asked, pulling back on her speed. There was no shimmy, so it wasn't a tire, it wasn't the transmission – but her coolant temperature was climbing at an alarming rate.

Sarah decelerated quickly, with steam beginning to come from under the hood as she rolled to a stop. She quickly shut off the Porsche and popped the hood.

Walking around to the back end, she lifted the hood of the German-made sports car, and waved away the steam. It seemed to be coming from where the coolant pipe entered the engine. "Oh, that's not good," she muttered.

Staying far, far away from the radiator cap, Sarah popped open the coolant reservoir fill cap – and saw the last thing she wanted to see. Little black flecks in the green coolant.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "No, no, no!"

She walked back to the driver's door, reached behind the seat, and came out with a shop rag. Folding it several times, she reached in and withdrew the dipstick. Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the little white bubbles in the oil.

One blown head gasket, ruining her perfect Sunday morning drive.

"Fuck!" she snapped. "Son of a bitch!"

She pulled out her cell phone – and of course, no reception. "That fucking figures," she growled. However, there had been a CalTrans call box about half a mile back down the road.

Sighing, she grabbed the bottle of water she always kept in the car and shut the door, locking it. She left the hood up to let it cool down. "Who's gonna steal a car with a blown head gasket in the middle of nowhere?" she grumbled.

Sarah found that the half mile walk actually wasn't that bad. Two weeks ago, she barely would've made it half a block, but ever since Chuck confronted her with her problems, she'd been making a concerted effort to change things.

She wrenched open the door of the call box and withdrew the handset. There was a dialtone, thank God, and it was followed by a double beep. A moment later, she heard a ring.

"California Highway Patrol," she heard.

"Yeah, hi, my car broke down just past call box… uh… 23-424 on Mulholland Highway," Sarah said. "The head gasket blew, and I don't have cell phone reception out here."

"Alright, ma'am, is there somebody we can connect you to?"

"Yeah, if you can connect me to AAA, that'd be great."

* * *

Nearly three hours later, the tow truck finally pulled up in front of her house in Studio City. As it rolled to a stop by the curb, Sarah saw Chuck riding his bike back toward the house, John in the baby seat behind him and Lisa in the trailer towed behind the bike.

She saw Chuck's mouth form the words, "Oh, no," as the truck stopped. Sarah and the driver climbed out of the tow truck, and he immediately went to the control box to start lowering the flatbed to the street.

"What happened?" Chuck asked as he rode up.

"The head gasket blew," Sarah said bitterly. "I pushed it up to 130, and that was just a bit too much, apparently."

"Oooh," Chuck said. "That's harsh."

Sarah looked over at him, and smiled wryly. "Nothing about the fact that I was going 130?"

"I'd be concerned if I was going 130," Chuck replied, "but you're Sarah, the Super Spy Mama!"

"Shhh!" she hissed, giggling. She was pretty sure that the tow truck driver couldn't hear Chuck over the whine of the flatbed's motor, but she didn't want to take any risks.

Sarah signed off on the sheet the tow truck driver had – thank God for the AAA premium membership, she had unlimited miles for towing – and headed inside the house. "Where are you going?" Chuck asked, wheeling the bike toward the garage.

"To call a Porsche mechanic to get this thing scheduled to be fixed."

"Uh, don't do that quite yet," Chuck replied.

Sarah stopped and turned around. "Why would I not do that? If I'm driving the Dodge, how are you going to get around?"

Chuck smiled. "Let's just say I think I know what to get you for your birthday."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Oh REALLY."

Chuck looked back at her, doing his best to look mysterious and failing miserably. "Yes, really."

Sarah smiled naughtily and stepped forward. "Well, once you put the kids down for their nap, why don't you join me in the bedroom. I think you just earned an interrogation from the Super Spy Mama."

Chuck's eyebrows arched. "I think I like the sounds of that," he said with a grin.

Sarah turned and walked toward the house, positively strutting as she went. Chuck smiled as he watched her go in. Getting the kids from the bike, he set them on the ground, holding their hands as he escorted them to the house.

"Kids," he said, with a happy note in his voice, "I think your mom's back to stay."

* * *

**6:00 A.M., PDT**

**Thursday, June 14****th****, 2012**

**SCCS Building**

**12240 Ventura Blvd., Studio City, CA**

They all arrived early that morning. It was a special day – Chuck had promised Casey that they'd run the American flag up for the first time outside the two story office building on Flag Day.

Casey had worked his last day as the general manager of the Burbank Buy More the day before. Despite how much he said he despised the job, it had still been a pretty emotional departure for him after four and a half years at the store.

But it was no matter. Today was a new day, a new job, a new opportunity.

The Bartowskis' maroon Dodge station wagon was already in the parking lot when Casey arrived. His Suburban was the second car to pull into the lot, followed shortly thereafter by the Woodcombs. They had taken a detour on the way in to pick up the twins and take them and Katie to day care.

By 6:15 AM, the crew was assembled in the conference room on the second floor. Chuck stood at the head of the table, his high-backed chair next to him, turned backward.

"Good morning," Chuck said, his voice practically trembling with excitement. "And welcome to Day One of Studio City Consulting Services."

A huge grin cracked his face, and a round of applause broke out around the table. Sitting at the end opposite Chuck were Senator Art Graham from North Carolina, and Director Sam Tyler of the CIA. They both appeared to be very pleased.

"I'd just like to go around and make sure all of our roles are clarified," Chuck began. "As you all know – as I would certainly HOPE you all know at this point, I'm Chuck Bartowski, and I'm the Chief Executive Officer.

"To my left is Colonel John Casey. Colonel Casey will be our lead combat specialist.

"Next is Morgan Grimes. Morgan is our administrator and office manager. If you need anything at any time, you go through Morgan. Morgan's civilian front will actually be building receptionist and administrative assistant for Nerd Cave Video Games, on the ground floor of the building.

"Next to him is Carina Hansen, formerly of the DEA. Carina is a combat and narcotics specialist.

"Beside her is Bryce Larkin, formerly of the CIA. Bryce is also a combat specialist. His primary mission will continue to be rooting out Fulcrum.

"You all know Senator Graham and DCI Tyler, so I'll skip them. On the other side of Director Tyler are our medical staff – Doctors Devin and Ellie Woodcomb. Their civilian front is a working medical practice – Ventura Medical Clinic – also on the ground floor of the building.

"Beside my lovely sister are our two pilots, Commander Rachel Harrison and Major Will Williamson. And beside Will is a fellow Marine Corps Reservist, Master Sergeant Mitchell Tucker. He is our armorer. Weapons all go through him."

Chuck paused and took a breath. Nobody in the room except for Tyler and Graham knew what Chuck was going to do next.

"Finally," Chuck said, "I'd like to introduce to you our director of combat operations and our chief operating officer. Formerly of the CIA…"

His chair turned around.

"Sarah Walker."

The eyes of everybody around the table went wide. None of them had seen her since she left the hospital, and Chuck had been very tight-lipped about her condition.

The first person to speak was Casey. He actually had a huge smile on his face. "It's good to see you back in the saddle, Walker," he said.

"Thank you," she replied with an equally large smile. "It's good to be back."

* * *

After the re-introductions, Chuck took everybody on a tour of the building. He and Morgan were the only ones who had really been through the building thus far, getting everything wired and getting all the tech stuff up and running.

On the second floor, behind the conference room that overlooked Ventura Boulevard, there was a large open space with desks for everybody. Sarah had her own office. Behind the workspace was a small shooting range and the armory.

On the ground floor, out in front was the reception desk. Taking up a quarter of the first floor to the left of reception was the office for Nerd Cave Video Games. That was Chuck's office. Taking up the remainder of the floor was the Ventura Medical Clinic.

But the best part was yet to come. Chuck led everybody down the stairs into a very dimly lit garage area, grabbing a paper Whole Foods bag from his office as they went.

"As members of the team, you have each been assigned a company car," Chuck explained. "These are yours to do with as you please; however, you are responsible for gas, periodic maintenance, and repairing any damage incurred during personal use. If damage occurs during a mission, then the company will pay for it."

"By which he means the United States government will pay for it," rumbled Art Graham. "So be careful, for God's sake."

Chuck lifted a small remote control, and then paused. "Before I start, I apologize for the theatricality of all this." He nearly giggled. "I just couldn't resist."

"IN SPACE NUMBER ONE!"

"Christ," John Casey muttered, rolling his eyes as Chuck hit the button to illuminate a spotlight over the first car. It was a black Lexus RX 400h hybrid.

"Morgan, that's yours," Chuck said, his friend's eyes growing wide as he reached into the Whole Foods bag and tossed Morgan the keys.

"Dude," Morgan breathed. "That's… that's…"

"Awesome?" Devin suggested.

"Yeah!"

Chuck smiled, and hit the remote again. A second spotlight lit up, revealing a black four door Jeep Wrangler. It had clearly been heavily modified, given the off-road tires and what appeared to be…

"There's a machine gun turret on that Jeep," Bryce said.

"Yes, yes there is, Bryce," Chuck replied. "And it's yours."

Bryce arched his eyebrows in disbelief. "It got anything else I should know about? Maybe a slime shooter on the back end?"

Chuck smiled and shook his head. He reached into the bag again and pulled out the keys. "Press that… blue button," he said.

Bryce did – and two TOW missile launchers deployed and unfolded from the front fenders. "Okay, now THAT's pretty cool," Bryce said with a grin.

"Behind door number three," Chuck muttered, and hit the remote again. A third spot lit up to reveal a Suzuki Hayabusa GSKR1300 bike.

"Oh, that is SO mine," Carina said, walking toward the bike. "Please tell me it's mine."

Chuck rolled his eyes. The former DEA agent was practically drooling. "It's yours, Carina," he said, reaching into the bag and tossing Carina the keys.

She stuck the keys in the ignition, and then started the bike up. It roared to life, and she gunned the engine several times.

"Ohhhh," she moaned.

"Why don't the two of you get a room!" Chuck shouted over the din.

Carina smiled and shut the bike off. "Only if you're there too."

Chuck sighed, and next to him, he could tell that Sarah was fighting to stay calm. Carina might have been a bad idea.

But this was not the time to worry about that. Chuck hit the button again, and three spotlights lit up to reveal a black Toyota Land Cruiser, a black Dodge Charger, and a black Chrysler 300C. "These are Master Sergeant Tucker, Major Williamson, and Commander Harrison's cars, respectively," Chuck informed them. "In addition to being our armorer and pilots, you're also going to be our drivers. Mitch, you get a bigger one so you can fit your vast array of weaponry in it."

"Excellent," Tucker intoned, sounding remarkably like Montgomery Burns.

Chuck shook his head. He hit the remote again. Two more spotlights lit up, revealing a black Saturn Sky and a black Shelby Mustang SuperSnake edition.

"Ellie, Devin, these are yours," Chuck told his sister and brother-in-law.

Ellie's eyes had gone wide. "I finally have a hardtop roadster," she whispered. "I've wanted a car like this since I was ten!"

"I know," Chuck said. "I remember quite clearly when you started stealing my Hot Wheels."

"Dude," Devin said. "This is… this is almost as awesome as the Awesome Mobile."

The Awesome Mobile was Devin's 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 – a replica of Eleanor from _Gone in Sixty Seconds_.

"Devin," Chuck replied, "this Mustang was built to destroy Dodge Vipers. I have a feeling it would kick the Awesome Mobile's ass."

Devin turned and wagged a finger at Chuck. "Speak not an unkind word about the Awesome Mobile, mon frère."

Chuck laughed. "Casey, this next one's yours."

Casey looked at him. "What is it?"

Chuck smiled and hit the remote. Another spotlight illuminated to reveal a jet black 1985 Ford LTD Crown Victoria. "It's the police edition," Chuck said. "351 Windsor engine, four barrel Holley carburetor. GPS tracking device in the license plate frame."

Casey had grown a huge smile as Chuck pulled out the keys and tossed them to him. Then, his face grew serious as he turned to Chuck.

"You blow this one up, Bartowski, I'll kill you."

Chuck just smiled and shook his head. "Uh, the next one's mine… we can just skip over it…"

"Why would we skip over your car, Chuck?" Devin asked. "Everybody's gotten a pretty sweet ride so far… I'm sure yours is just as good."

Chuck sighed. "Really, we don't have to –"

"Show us the damn car, Bartowski!" Casey insisted.

"Fine, fine," Chuck muttered. He hit the remote – and a spotlight illuminated to reveal a black 1982 Pontiac Trans Am, with a row of red LED lights built into the air scoop in the front of the hood. There was silence for a moment.

"Uh, Chuck," Senator Graham finally said, "I believe I distinctly remember telling you that you didn't have the money to build your own K.I.T.T."

"It's not REALLY a Knight Industries Two Thousand," Chuck grumbled. "It's just a kickass Trans Am with lights built into the hood to make it LOOK like K.I.T.T."

"LO-ser," Morgan intoned, _sotto voce_. Chuck blushed.

"Shut up, Morgan! You liked the show just as much as I did when we were kids!" he said.

"Eh, true," Morgan replied. "But while you're blasting around in the Hoffmobile, I'll be cruising down Sunset in my sweet hybrid."

At that point, Sarah put her hand on her husband's arm. "What about me?"

Chuck grew a huge smile on his face. "Well… what can I say, but, happy birthday."

He hit the remote again. One final spotlight came on to reveal a black 1989 Porsche 959.

Sarah's jaw dropped. "HO-ly SHIT," she gasped. "You got me a 959?!"

Chuck nodded, the smile plastered on his face. "Chuck," Sarah said, "they only built 377 of these things!"

His grin got even bigger. "I know. I bought it from Bill Gates."

"You did WHAT?!" Sam Tyler had stepped forward, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Chuck held up his hands. "Okay, okay, I didn't use government money on this. I bought it with Nerd Cave profits."

That seemed to appease Tyler. Sarah still couldn't believe what she was seeing, though. She walked around the 959, touching it as if to assure herself that it was actually there.

"Hey, Chuck!" Morgan said. "You mind if we take our rides out for a spin?"

"Go right ahead," Chuck replied, hitting another button on the remote to open up the sliding door at the top of the ramp leading up to the parking lot. Tyler wanted to see how the SuperSnake performed, and climbed into it with Devin, while Graham got in the old Crown Vic with Casey.

"Let's see what this old girl can do!" Graham shouted.

When the last echoes of engine noise had faded, Chuck and Sarah were left standing in the garage. "So," he said, "what do you say we take that 959 out for a spin, see what she can do."

Sarah looked happier at that moment than she had in months. "I think that's a fantastic idea," she replied. "But before I do that, I have a thank you to compose. For a certain German-made birthday gift. And I need your help."

"Oh, REALLY," Chuck shot back. "And where do you propose we do that?"

Sarah's smile got downright wicked. "Oh, I was thinking on my desk."


	7. Ring of Fire

**11:42 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Tuesday, June 26****th****, 2012**

**SCCS, Studio City, California**

The phone on Morgan's desk rang. He sighed. It was going to be another boring call. All of them were. Every single call he'd received since they'd opened twelve days beforehand had either been for Ventura Medical or for Nerd Cave Video Games. The troops were getting restless, and Chuck was making noises like he was getting ready to send Bryce back out into the field for more Fulcrum-hunting.

"Good morning, thank you for calling the SCCS Building, my name is Morgan, how may I assist you?" he spat out rapid-fire.

"Yes, may I be connected to Studio City Consulting Services, please?"

Morgan's eyes widened. A real call?! No way. Finally!

"Uh, may I ask who's calling please?"

"Yes, my name is Commander Rick Pope. I'm with the Los Angeles Police Department."

"Uh, could you please hold a minute?"

"Not a problem."

Morgan pressed the hold button with a trembling finger, then put the phone in its cradle. He shot out of his chair and dashed across the lobby, wrenching open the Nerd Cave door.

"Chuck!" he gasped breathlessly. "I've got an honest-to-God call for SCCS on the phone! It's some dude with the LAPD!"

Chuck looked up from the code he was working on for his next game. "No shit," he said, standing up quickly. He followed Morgan out the door to the reception desk, where he picked up the phone.

"Thank you for holding," he said. "My name is Chuck Bartowski, I'm the president of SCCS. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Bartowski, my name is Commander Rick Pope. I'm with the LAPD Gang Squad. I understand that your company specializes in operations that otherwise reputable organizations may not necessarily want on the books?"

Chuck frowned. That wasn't exactly how he would have described SCCS. "Actually, sir, we're an organization that was begun as an adjunct to the United States government to provide security services for sensitive situations."

Commander Pope laughed. "So in other words, yes."

Chuck sighed. "I suppose we could be described that way, by less than charitable individuals."

"Mr. Bartowski, I'm not looking to be charitable," Pope replied. "I've got a task force that encompasses seven Southland police agencies, the California Highway Patrol, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We've got this gang that we've been trying to shut down for almost a year now, but because one of their number managed to get himself elected to the State Assembly, we're finding roadblocks every time we turn a corner."

Pope paused. "I've spoken with Senator Arthur Graham," he continued. "He assures me that your organization can take care of things, with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of federal support."

Chuck sighed again. "Commander Pope, this sounds like a very serious mission. I would need to meet with you in order to discuss specifics before committing a single moment of my company's time. There would also be a rather substantial fee involved."

"Fair enough, Mr. Bartowski. How quickly can you get to Parker Center?"

"Forty-five minutes?" Chuck replied. "An hour, maybe?"

"How about 1:00?" Pope asked. "Can you be here with your top people at 1:00?"

"Yeah, we can do that," Chuck said.

"We'll see you then."

And the phone went dead.

Chuck shook his head and replaced the handset in its cradle. "Morgan, can you get Sam Tyler on the phone?" he said. "And call Bryce… tell him he's not going anywhere."

Before Morgan could respond, Chuck had crossed the lobby to the stairs, and was headed up to the second floor. When he burst out into the SCCS offices, the only desk occupied was John Casey's.

"Casey," Chuck said, and pointed toward Sarah's office. Casey said nothing; he simply rose from his desk and followed Chuck toward the office of the chief operating officer of Studio City Consulting Services.

Chuck knocked on the door and pushed it open. Sarah was sitting at her desk, staring intently at her screen and making the occasional sharp movement on the keyboard.

Curious, Chuck walked around her desk. Sarah was sitting there playing Call of Duty V.

"Seriously, you're the COO of the company, and here you sit, playing Call of Duty," Chuck said, no small amusement in his voice.

"I… have been… on one serious op in the last… three years," Sarah replied, her concentration clearly on the screen. "I have to… get my aggression… out somewhere."

"That may all be about to change," Chuck said, and THAT got Sarah's attention quickly. Casey's interest was piqued as well, his eyes brightening and his posture getting a little straighter.

"I just got off the phone with Commander Rick Pope of the LAPD's Gang Squad," Chuck told them. "He's apparently running an interagency task force that's trying to take down a gang; however, it would seem that a former member of that gang somehow got himself elected to the state Assembly, and is now being a royal pain in the ass. Commander Pope has spoken with Senator Graham, and the three of us have an appointment to speak with him at Parker Center in a little over an hour."

"Wait," Casey said, "I'm confused. What exactly does he expect us to do?"

"Take down a gang, I think," Chuck replied. "I really don't know for sure. That's why we're going downtown – he'll tell us there, I imagine."

Fifty-two minutes later, John Casey's Crown Vic pulled into the parking garage at Parker Center. Casey pulled directly up to the front of the building and parked in a spot marked "Police Vehicles Only".

"Uh, Casey," Chuck said from the backseat – how he had ended up there, he still wasn't sure, but it annoyed him – "that sign says Police Vehicles Only."

"Your powers of observation are astonishing, Bartowski," Casey wisecracked. "Do you REALLY think they're gonna tow a black Crown Vic in a police parking garage? There's probably a handful of cars just like this in this garage."

Chuck couldn't argue with Casey's logic, and so just grumbled and followed the two former federal agents into the building. They both removed their guns – and in Sarah's case, her usual veritable arsenal of other weapons – as they entered, and it was a good thing they had gone before Chuck – if he hadn't seen them remove their weapons, he would've completely forgotten about the Ruger .357 that Sarah had insisted he start carrying in a shoulder holster.

He sighed and reached under his jacket, removing the six-shot revolver and placing it on the table next to the metal detector, along with his permit to carry concealed. He turned and walked through the metal detector. Once declared clean, he was told that his weapon and his permit would be returned to him when he left the building.

"You know, I have had to fire a gun exactly once in my entire life," he remarked as they headed toward the elevators. "And that was YOUR gun."

"I believe remember the incident fairly well," Sarah deadpanned. "And I think it's proof of why you need to have the gun. If I had had my gun, it wouldn't have happened."

"Actually, if General Beckman hadn't been a psychotic traitor, it wouldn't have happened," Casey said as they stepped into the elevator.

"Well, there is that."

The elevator let them out on the vice investigation floor, where a corner had been dedicated to the gang squad. A small office that looked like it might've been a broom closet at one point had a sign on the door that indicated it was the office of Commander Richard Pope.

Chuck led the way to the office and knocked on the door. "Come in!"

He opened the door and stepped into a cramped, stuffy office that smelled of coffee and cordite. "Ah, the smells of home," John Casey breathed as he stepped inside.

"Law enforcement?" the police commander asked, looking up at Casey.

"Air Force, and other… activities," Casey replied. "Can't really talk about 'em that much."

"Fair enough," Commander Pope replied, indicating that they should take a seat.

"So, Mr. Bartowski," Pope began, "you seemed to have reservations about this when we spoke on the phone earlier."

"Yes, sir," Chuck replied. "I'm not exactly comfortable with the idea of my company being used for the LAPD's dirty work because of a political hangup."

Pope nodded. "Understandable," he said. "But, you see, I spoke with Senator Graham again after speaking with you. He faxed me a picture, and suggested I have you take a look at it."

Chuck narrowed his eyes, and reached out to take the picture from Pope. He looked at it, and saw a man in a three piece suit, with a teardrop tattooed below his eye –

And Chuck's eyes rolled back in his head. He saw a barrage of images – the first flash he'd had in months. And this one was painful. Incredibly painful.

He blinked his eyes and shook his head. "Alberto Calijo," he said quietly. "Also known as El Anillo del Fuego – the Ring of Fire. Known associate of Al Qaida, FARC, and our good friends, Fulcrum. Also a big cheese for the Mexican mafia, and gang leader of…"

Chuck sighed. "The Firestone Slayers."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Oh, joy," Sarah said dryly.

"You've had an encounter with the Slayers?" Pope asked.

"About four and a half months ago," Casey replied. "We got stuck at a stoplight at Pioneer and Firestone, some of them approached our van, and informed Agent Walker here that she looked like she could, and I quote, 'suck a good dick'. Agent Walker then disembarked from the van and blew the windshield out of one of their cars. The two of us informed a group of about twenty of them that they could depart or die. They chose to depart, but I'm guessing we're on their shitlist."

Pope looked at Sarah. "I thought your name was Sarah Bartowski," he said, looking down at a sheet on his desk. "Why is Mr. Casey calling you Agent Walker?"

She shook her head. "I really can't talk about that."

Pope's eyes widened as his brain connected the dots. "Wait, you're… you're Sarah Walker! Legend in the CIA!"

"Oh, here we go," Chuck muttered.

"Commander Pope, I cannot talk about that," Sarah said tightly. "If you know anything about the intelligence community, then you know exactly why."

He held up his hands. "Alright, fair enough. Anyway. The Firestone Boulevard Slayers are a real menace. They've managed to start, if not gang wars, then conflicts with the Crips, the Bloods, and MS-13. They're causing all sorts of trouble in South Central. LA County Sheriff's has had to start putting uniforms on all Blue and Green Line trains for the protection of the passengers.

"Anyway, Calijo's cousin got himself elected to the Assembly, and he's blocking everything we're trying to do to take down the Slayers. That's where you come in."

Chuck shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure what you're expecting us to – excuse me."

His phone had begun to ring in his pocket. The "Bohemian Rhapsody" ringtone told him immediately who it was – Director Sam Tyler. "'bout damn time," he grumbled as he dug the phone out. "This is Bartowski."

"Chuck, Sam Tyler. Listen – you are to cooperate with LAPD on this thing in whatever way possible. We believe that Calijo is tied in with Fulcrum –"

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"And we want him gone. His gang, too. By ANY MEANS POSSIBLE."

Chuck threw up his free hand in exasperation. "Sir, you're talking about an illegal operation here!"

Sam Tyler was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, his tone foreboding. "Chuck, I have here in my hand what is essentially a get out of jail card and hunting license all rolled into one. It's signed by the President himself – he still owes you and yours a debt of gratitude for what happened back in February."

Chuck had been backed into a corner. There would be no getting out of this one. "Alright, sir. But I want a copy of that faxed to my office immediately."

"Consider it done."

* * *

**3:30 P.M., PDT**

**Norwalk, California**

The black Jeep Wrangler exited the I-5 freeway onto Pioneer Boulevard, followed by a black Toyota Land Cruiser and a black Chevrolet Suburban. The Wrangler looked odd indeed – a machine gun turret on top, with what appeared to be TOW missile launchers deployed from both of the front fenders.

The three car convoy rolled south on Pioneer Boulevard, half a mile to Firestone Boulevard. In the backseat of the Suburban, Chuck leaned over to Sarah.

"You really think this is a good idea?" he asked worriedly.

"If the first thing we do is announce our intention to completely destroy them, there's a chance that they'll pack it in and go home," Sarah replied confidently.

"Yeah, a CHANCE," Chuck said. "This is not just our company's reputation we're putting on the line here – this is my life, your life, everybody else's lives. After all we've been through the last few months, what the HELL do we think we're doing here?"

Sarah sighed and looked Chuck in the eyes. "We will be fine," she replied. "You and me – think of everything we've been through. You were abducted, I rescued you. I was shot, you rescued me. We saved the country together. After all that, do you think a few gang members are going to stop us."

That brought a small smile to Chuck's face. "Well, when you put it that way…"

Sarah smiled, and kissed him lightly. "It's gonna be fine."

The three SUVs rolled to a stop in the middle of the intersection of Firestone and Pioneer. Bryce Larkin opened the shotgun door of the Jeep and stepped out. He looked strange dressed in full body armor and a riot helmet, but it was for his own protection.

He flipped up the visor on the riot helmet, and brought a bullhorn to his lips. "Attention Firestone Boulevard Slayers!" he called.

That got the attention of the twenty or so men standing on the street corners. Chuck recognized a few of them as the men who had accosted Sarah back in February when they were fleeing the NSA. He was glad that the Suburban had limo tint in its windows.

"You are hereby on notice!" Bryce continued. "You have been marked for removal by the United States of America! You have a choice – you can either turn Alberto Calijo over to us and disband immediately, or you can be destroyed. The choice is yours."

Almost before he stopped speaking, a shot rang out, and Bryce was knocked on his ass. The shot spurred Casey, at the wheel of the Suburban, and Mitch Tucker, at the wheel of the Land Cruiser into action. The two larger SUVs pulled up on either side of Bryce.

Carina Hansen threw open the back door of the Land Cruiser, laying down covering fire with an MP-5, while Chuck opened the back door of the Suburban and dragged Bryce inside. Rachel Harrison, at the wheel of the Jeep, brought it around in a circle, while Will Williamson stood up in the machine gun turret and fired a burst into the sky.

The Slayers recognized immediately that they were outgunned and backed off. The Jeep sped off down Firestone Boulevard, with the Land Cruiser and the Suburban hot on its tail. Chuck winced as he heard a bullet ping off the rear bumper of the Suburban.

"Well," Bryce croaked, sitting up and still trying to regain his breath, "I guess they made their choice."

"You think?" Chuck asked sarcastically.

Sarah shook her head at Chuck's sarcasm. "It was a successful mission, Chuck," she said. "That's something you're going to have to learn if you're going to be in this business as a professional."

Chuck rolled his eyes and shook his head. "If this was a successful mission," he cracked, "I'd HATE to see a failure."


	8. Papa Was a Good Man

**9:30 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Friday, June 29****th****, 2012**

**SCCS Building, Studio City, California**

After the incident in Norwalk, Chuck had told everybody to take a couple of days off. He wanted everybody to sort of cool down from confronting the Firestone Slayers on their own turf and getting away with it.

He also didn't want anybody even REMOTELY connected with the Slayers to see a bunch of black vehicles together and be able to pinpoint where they were. He figured that after a few days, they'd move on to bigger and better things, but until then, he wanted SCCS to fly under the radar.

On Friday morning, though, he asked everybody to come in. He wanted to look at the mission, figure out a plan of attack, figure out what exactly they were going to do.

"Alright," Chuck said, looking around the conference room. "So. Our objective is to neutralize the Firestone Boulevard Slayers as a criminal force in Los Angeles County, and if possible, apprehend Alberto Calijo. Ideas?"

Not surprisingly, John Casey opened his mouth and let loose with gusto: "Kill 'em all!"

Chuck rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Not an option, Casey. Other ideas?"

"Deport 'em all!"

"Casey, come on. Let's be serious."

Casey looked back at Chuck. "I AM serious," he replied. "Round them up, and drop them on the other side of the border. We give a heads up to ICE, none of them will EVER get back in the country."

Chuck shook his head. "We can't do that, Casey. It's against the law, and it's unconstitutional."

"I seem to recall you have a 'We are the law' warrant stashed somewhere, Bartowski."

Now Chuck was getting mad. "We are not going to ABUSE the law, Casey. What makes you think that rounding them up and tossing them out of the country will solve the problem anyway?"

"Sure take care of a bunch of illegals," Casey grumbled.

"What about the legal residents and the citizens?" Chuck protested. "And for that matter, what do you have against illegal immigrants? They leave, California falls apart."

Casey gave him a sideways glare. "They leave, they stop being a drain on the system. They stop causing crime. They stop being a pain in my ass."

Chuck's blood was starting to boil. He couldn't believe he was hearing this.

Sarah saw that Chuck was getting angry, and moved to intervene. "Casey, I think that's enough. We need to think –"

"No, Sarah," Chuck grated. "If Casey wants to have his opinion, he can have it. But let me tell you a little something about illegal immigrants, bucko."

He paused and breathed deeply, collecting his thoughts. "In 1943, a pair of twelve year old children were smuggled out of the Warsaw Ghetto, shortly before the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Their parents knew that the Uprising was coming, and knew that they had to get the children out of there so that they would be safe.

"Their names were Ladislaw Bzechewski, a boy from a Jewish Polish family, and Irina Kuznetsova, a girl from a Jewish Russian family that had settled in Warsaw after the pogroms that accompanied the 1917 revolution. They had been friends since they were toddlers, and their families were desperate to get them as far away from the Nazi empire as possible.

"A Catholic priest had contacts across Europe and in the United States, and was able to get them out of Warsaw to Gdańsk. There, they were placed onboard a container vessel which dropped them overboard in a rubber dinghy off the coast of Ireland.

"An Irish Catholic priest who was friends with his Polish counterpart arranged for Ladislaw and Irina to be placed onboard a ship that was going to the United States. It miraculously made it across the Atlantic unharmed, and they were smuggled ashore near Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

"Ladislaw and Irina were taken in by different families, but in those days, the process for getting legal status for a Jew – especially a Jewish child with absolutely no paperwork – was a nightmare. So, the Catholic Church provided them with false paperwork, because they believed that that was the Christian thing to do, and because it was easy to get away with in 1943.

"As they grew older, they became more Americanized, and adopted Americanized versions of their names. Ladislaw became Sid, Irina became Irene. Their friendship grew into something far greater, and in 1950, when they were both 19, they were married.

"Shortly thereafter, Sid, feeling a sense of duty to his adopted country, joined the United States Army. When he enlisted, his last name was also Americanized – he was told to make it easier for his comrades in arms to pronounce it.

"Sid served three years in Korea, and then returned home. He remained in the Army. He and Irene were shuffled all over the United States, and had their first child – a son – in 1957. They named him Irving – after, of all people, Irving Berlin.

"In 1963, they had a second child – a daughter. They named her Marilyn – yes, after Marilyn Monroe. Then, in 1967, Sid was sent to Vietnam.

"He was a Sergeant First Class when he was shipped out, and received a battlefield promotion to Master Sergeant in 1968. However, in 1969, he was shot and killed – at the age of 38. He didn't live to see his own grandchildren.

"Irene, however, did. Irving had two children, but Marilyn didn't have any. Irving's first child – a girl, named Eleanor, was born in 1979. His second, a boy, named Charles, was born in 1981. So Irene lived to see two grandchildren, AND she lived to see a Polish man become Pope – a Polish man by the name of Karol Wojtyla, who years before had risked his life as a 23 year-old deacon to drive her and her future husband out of Warsaw.

"In 1987, she had a massive heart attack and died, at the age of 56. And so, both Sid and Irene Bartowski, both of who had been good, upstanding citizens, Sid giving his life for the United States – both of them died, still technically illegal immigrants."

Chuck crossed his arms and stared long and hard at John Casey. "Do you kind of understand why I resent your comments about illegal immigrants, Casey?"

Casey shrugged weakly. "It was a different situation," he offered.

"I don't care," Chuck replied. "If you're going to work here, Casey – and this goes for all of you – you will remember that you are no better than any other human being. I figured this group of people would be able to handle that, but if that's not the case, please leave now."

The room was quiet. Everybody just stared at Chuck. Nobody – not even Ellie or Morgan, the people who had known him longest – could remember ever seeing him like this.

"Uh," Sarah said softly, breaking the silence, "I think we should take a break. Resume back here in, say, fifteen minutes?"

A murmur of acquiescence rippled around the room, and everybody left the conference room except for Chuck and Sarah. She stood up, and crossed to Chuck, who was looking out the window, his back to her.

Placing her left hand on the back of his neck, she began to gently rub it. "Are you okay?" she asked, the note of concern in her voice fairly evident.

He blew out his breath in frustration. "Yeah, I guess so," he sighed. "I just didn't figure that this would be how things were going to go."

"Chuck, you knew when Director Tyler and Senator Graham asked you to start this that we were going to be performing operations that the United States government couldn't afford to be involved with. That's why we started this."

Chuck turned to face Sarah. "I didn't expect to be going after a gang in Los Angeles, Sarah!" he exclaimed. "This is not what I thought I was signing up to do!"

"Chuck," Sarah said soothingly, "we're going after this gang because their leader has ties to Al Qaida and Fulcrum. I think that's a pretty good reason, especially considering that one of those two groups has, on more than one occasion, tried to kidnap or kill you."

Chuck shook his head. "Believe me, if I was going after him simply because of the Fulcrum connection, there would be nothing that could stop me. They deserve to pay after what General Beckman did to you. But we're not. I assure you that the LAPD has asked us to take on this mission because they want the Slayers gone."

"Is that such a bad thing, Chuck?" Sarah asked. "This is a gang that operates along the I-5 freeway, from Norwalk all the way up to Burbank. That's just a few miles from our house. Wouldn't you rather see John and Lisa grow up not having to ever worry about this gang coming into the neighborhood?"

Chuck huffed and ran his hands through his hair, but a hint of a smile began to form on his face. "That's just dirty, using the kids to support your argument."

"No," Sarah replied, "that's parenting. You want dirty…"

She stopped and smiled.

Chuck shrugged. "I could go for dirty."

Without warning, he grabbed Sarah and pulled her close to him, kissing her hard, and managing to snake a hand up under the back of her blouse. Resisting the urge to give in to him, she instead pushed him away.

"Not NOW, you pervert!" she scolded him, the smile on her face nonetheless getting bigger. "Everybody will be back in a few minutes."

"Aw, come on, Sarah, I'm a guy, I can make it quick…"

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "LATER."

A moment later, the door to the conference room swung open and John Casey stepped back in. He stopped short when he realized it was just Chuck and Sarah in the conference room.

Awkwardly looking down at the carpet, Casey made his way back to his chair and sat. He was quiet for a moment, but finally spoke up.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I was an ass. It doesn't change how I feel about illegal immigration, but I shouldn't have been a dick about it."

Chuck sighed. "Thank you, Casey. I probably could've afforded to be a little less heavy-handed."

Casey nodded. "I think that you and I should perhaps never talk politics, Bartowski. We might end up going ten paces and draw."

Chuck smiled. "I think I'd prefer to avoid that, because I think I'd lose."

"Aw, give yourself some credit, Bartowski. After all, you did have a pretty good instructor."

Chuck shook his head. "Yeah, an instructor who set up a cardboard target that managed to get us almost blown out of a field by the NSA."

"But we're VERY THANKFUL that you taught Chuck how to shoot, Casey," Sarah interjected, "because if it hadn't been for him, I don't know what General Beckman might have gotten away with."

Chuck nodded somberly. "Okay, you're right on that one… but this conversation is rapidly getting depressing. Can we talk about something else?"

Casey smiled. "We can talk about how the Red Sox have booted nine in a row and are sinking to the bottom of the AL East faster than a submarine with a screen door."

Sarah narrowed her eyes at the disparaging mention of the Red Sox. "I will end you both."


	9. Folsom Prison Blues

**10:00 AM, Pacific Daylight Time**

**Thursday, July 5****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

Chuck Bartowski sat in his office in the SCCS building, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Ellie had convinced him three days before that it was time when he started squinting to read the scores of baseball games on his sixty-inch television.

He didn't like them, not at all. They were an annoyance, and they made his vision fuzzy when he looked elsewhere. To make matters worse, Sarah had told him that they made him look "dignified", which John Casey had immediately decided meant "old".

Chuck didn't want to look old. He was only thirty-one. But here he was, reading glasses, and God help him, he had actually found a gray hair that morning.

"It is so time for a haircut," he had muttered immediately after finding the gray hair.

But right at the moment, he was reading over a contract. George Clooney's Section Eight production company had taken Chuck's first video game – Mindnode – and turned it into a movie two years before. A story about an average Joe who gets a database full of government secrets stuck in his head, it had starred Lee Pace, Kristen Bell, and Gareth David-Lloyd, and had been a moderately successful summer movie, grossing just over 170 million.

Now, Section Eight and Warner Brothers wanted to turn it into a TV show, for a mid-season pilot launch. Apparently, they had lined up Josh Schwartz, the guy who had come up with "The O.C.", to produce it, and Joseph "McG" Nichol to direct the pilot. George Clooney himself was overseeing it, and had Anton Yelchin, Miley Cyrus, and Sean Maher onboard to play the three main roles.

And of course, it involved eighty pages of legal bullcrap that Chuck had to read over himself because he refused to hire an assistant other than Morgan.

Chuck wasn't sure about Anton Yelchin or Miley Cyrus. Sure, Yelchin had been okay as Chekov in the _Star Trek _movie back in 2009, but then again, Chuck would probably never be entirely okay with whoever played the character based on him. And for that matter, Hannah freakin' Montana as Sarah's character?! Come on. The only acting choice he was completely behind was Sean "Simon Tam" Maher for the character based on Casey.

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back from his desk. He just couldn't concentrate on this right now. He was impatiently waiting for Sarah and Casey to come up with a worthwhile plan of attack on the Firestone Slayers that didn't involve mayhem and destruction – something that was less than simple for them, since mayhem and destruction was a specialty for them both.

That's when Chuck's secure phone rang.

It never rang. He almost didn't recognize the warble at first, and then looked at it like it was a snake. Gingerly, he reached out, lifted the receiver, and held it to his ear.

"Bartowski, uh, secure?"

"Bartowski, this is Director Tyler."

Sam Tyler on the phone. The Wisconsin-born, Manchester-raised CIA director with the accent that made him sound like he belonged on something produced by Russell T. Davies.

"Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?"

"We've got some backdoor intelligence for you from the DEA regarding the Firestone Slayers," Tyler replied. "Interested?"

Chuck sat bolt upright in his chair. "Absolutely!" he said sharply. "Do continue…"

Tyler chuckled. "Alright. So it seems that the Slayers tend to spend a lot of time a LONG way from their namesake street, at a little place called the Empire Center in Burbank. You know of it?"

Chuck groaned. "You could say that…"

Sam Tyler paused a moment, but didn't press the issue. "They have a car audio store there – Hermosa Audio – and that seems to be a front for their operations. The DEA seems to think they launder a lot of money through there."

Chuck sighed. "Well, thanks… is there anything else?"

"No, that's all. You have an idea on how you're going to proceed with this?"

"Unfortunately," Chuck replied wryly.

Tyler chuckled again. "That's kind of what I figured. Keep me posted."

And he hung up the phone. Chuck sighed, much more deeply this time, as he replaced the handset for the STU-8 in its cradle.

Reaching over to the standard phone, he picked it up and dialed a number he knew by heart, and when the automated system at the other end picked up, he dialed extension 111.

It rang twice, and then picked up. "Thank you for calling Buy More Burbank, you've reached the office of Lester Amanpoor, General Manager, how can I help you?"

"Lester, it's Chuck. I need your help."

* * *

**12:30 PM**

The team had assembled in the conference room at Chuck's request – minus Carina, who was in Juarez running down a lead on a drug-trafficking ring. Chuck wanted desperately to not have to put this plan into action, and was as such hoping that Casey and Sarah had come up with something good.

"Alright," Chuck began. "Good afternoon, everybody. Let's make this simple. Morgan, what have you got?"

"Can't get any phone records on any of these guys, Chuck," Morgan replied. "These guys are too smart. It would seem that they buy those prepaid phones from places like 7-Eleven, cash only, and toss them before they can be traced."

He turned a page in front of him. "All their other bills – utilities, rent, everything – are paid through a company called –"

"Hermosa Audio," Chuck interrupted him.

"Yeah," Morgan said quizzically. "It's completely legit – we've got nothing there."

"Lovely," Chuck muttered. "Bryce?"

The ex-CIA agent shook his head. "I can't get an exact trace on how they're getting their weapons," Bryce replied. "There are rumors, that they bring them in over the borders, mostly through North Dakota and Arizona, where there's pretty much nobody watching, but then there are rumors that they pick the weapons up at gun shows that are completely unregulated – well, it's just a mess."

"What about the rumors I've heard about them having military grade weaponry?" Chuck asked. "Any leads on that?"

Bryce shook his head again. "As much as I'm sure none of you want to hear this, military weapons go missing all the time. A misplaced shipment here, a Hummer that loses its payload there – and way too much of it can end up in south central for me to keep track of."

Chuck rubbed a hand against his forehead. "That's just fantastic," he grumbled sarcastically. "Ellie?"

His sister didn't have any better news. "According to my colleagues, they see Slayers at the L.A. Medical Center down in Hawthorne on a fairly regular basis, but there are absolutely no records – none – for any of them. They must have somebody on their payroll, somebody who can make sure that no permanent records exist for any of them."

Chuck was astonished. "How is it that a group of street thugs from south central Los Angeles can be better organized than the freakin' Mafia?!" he exclaimed. "This is ridiculous!"

He turned a pleading gaze on John Casey and Sarah. "Please tell me you have something. Please. Please. Please."

"You're sounding desperate," Casey cracked. "Must be the… uh… dignity from those glasses wearing off on you."

Chuck gave Casey the evil eye. "Just tell me your plan of action."

"Uh…" Sarah sighed. "In short, we don't have one."

Chuck couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You don't HAVE ONE?!"

Casey shook his head. "You told us that declaring war and deporting them were out of the question, and that REALLY limits our options," the former NSA agent said. "You heard Morgan and Bryce and Ellie – we have no way of tracking their phones, their weapons, their hospital visits. Their bank accounts – all in the name of Hermosa Audio. How exactly are we supposed to go after these guys?"

Chuck buried his face in his hands. "There's one more option," he muttered.

"Really?" Sarah asked. "Why didn't I know about this?"

Chuck took his hands back away from his face and shook his head. "I just got a call from Director Tyler a couple of hours ago," he replied. "He had some intelligence from the DEA for me. Apparently, the Slayers spend a LOT of time at the shopping center that Hermosa Audio is in."

He sighed. He was doing that a lot today. "That shopping center happens to be the Empire Plaza in Burbank. I figure that the easiest way for us to keep track of their movements is, well, an undercover operation."

As soon as he said that, the faces of John Casey, Morgan Grimes, and worst of all, Sarah Walker, turned to stone. "You have got to be kidding me," Casey growled.

Chuck shook his head. "I REALLY didn't want to do this," he replied. "But it sounds like we have no choice."

"I swore to God Almighty that I was done with that place," Sarah said, her eyes narrowed. "You are REALLY pushing the boundaries of 'to have and to hold' with this one, bucko."

"I'll make it up to you," Chuck sighed. "But we all start Monday. And yeah, we're all back at square one – Sarah, you're back on the line at the Wienerlicious. Morgan, Casey, you guys are back on the sales floor at the Buy More, and guess what – I'm right there with you guys."

He closed his eyes. "Back at the goddamn Nerd Herd desk."

* * *

**12:00 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Monday, July 9****th****, 2012**

**Burbank, California**

Chuck Bartowski had never before seriously contemplated killing himself.

Never before, that was, until now.

He was a multi-millionaire. He owned a wildly successful video game company, not to mention a consulting firm with a 20 million per year government contract. He was married to a beautiful woman and had two amazing kids.

And yet, here he was, standing behind the unholy of unholies – the Nerd Herd desk of the Empire Plaza Buy More in Burbank, California. The place he had spent seven unfortunate years of his life, one of those years as the assistant manager of the store.

Three years had passed since he had told Big Mike to take his job and shove it. Three years. In that time, John Casey had risen to general manager of the store and then departed. And now, somehow, Lester – LESTER! – had made his way to the top of the dog pile.

He had greeted Chuck with a smirk that morning, and introduced him to his team. A rather unfortunate looking eighteen year old Hawaiian kid named Albert. A far-too-perky co-ed from Occidental College who dressed in as little as possible. And Jeff.

If there was anything that astonished Chuck about the Nerd Herd, it was that Jeff was still part of it. He had been part of it long before Chuck had come onboard, and God willing, Chuck wouldn't be there long enough for Jeff to quit or get fired.

But Chuck had spent the last two hours fielding inane questions from some truly unintelligent people, and it was driving him crazy. He had seen Morgan and Casey a couple of times – Morgan looked like he was going to cry, and Casey looked like he wanted nothing more than to burn the Buy More to its foundations.

And then, just after noon, it happened.

The part of Chuck's day that he had always looked forward to several years before. The moment when the doors slid open, and in walked a pig-tailed, blue-eyed blonde in a German beer wench outfit with a little Wienerlicious nametag.

The difference now, of course, was that he was married to said blonde. And he had to admit, Sarah still looked DAMN good in the outfit, even after having been pregnant with twins and having been shot by a psychotic ex-NSA director.

"Why, hello," he said sarcastically as she walked up to the counter. "Welcome to hell – uh, Buy More. How may I assist you?"

Sarah smiled. "Oh, come on, Chuck, it's not that bad. You're not running the Superfry Death Machine!"

Chuck couldn't help it. He smiled and shook his head. "I remember when you refused to call it that."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, gotta have something to get me through the day."

She moved in closer to him. "I came over here because a group of the Slayers were in the Wienerlicious for lunch. I overheard them talking about a drugs-for-weapons swap they're doing out in San Bernardino on Thursday night. We might want to have a couple of people, you know, check that out."

Chuck nodded and smiled. "I knew I could count on you to get me what I needed."

Sarah leaned back and smiled as well. "You wait a few hours, I'll give you whatever else you need."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "You know, I do believe I'm going to hold you to that."

* * *

_**Author's Note:** the reason I picked "Folsom Prison Blues" as the title for this chapter is simply because of how I figure Chuck, Casey, Sarah, and Morgan would all feel about their old jobs after having escaped them for so long._


	10. It Ain't Me, Babe

**10:04 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Thursday, July 12****th****, 2012**

**Redlands, California**

Chuck Bartowski was not comfortable with his situation. In fact, he was VERY MUCH not comfortable with his situation.

It had been decided that Chuck and Sarah couldn't both go on missions late at night – one of them had to stay home with the kids. Sarah had ordained Chuck as being more important to this particular mission, since there was a good chance he would flash on one if not more of the people expected to be seen.

She had assigned Casey and Bryce to accompany Chuck to San Bernardino County. However, Casey had then come down some sort of virus, and was swapped out with Carina. Then, right before they were supposed to leave, Bryce had gotten violently ill – Ellie suspected food poisoning.

And so, here Chuck was, sitting behind the wheel of his maroon Dodge station wagon, alone in the car with the last person he wanted to be alone in a car with – Carina Hansen. They were in the Dodge because he didn't want to risk any of the Firestone Slayers recognizing Casey's Suburban, Mitch Tucker's Land Cruiser, or Bryce's Jeep.

Carina had behaved completely professionally so far, but Chuck didn't think there was any possible way that that was going to last. She was too wild, too much of a loose cannon – part of the reason why the DEA had been willing to part with her.

But for the entire drive out to Redlands, she had been mostly silent, not really making conversation, not really flirting with Chuck like she usually did. Now, as they sat on La Paloma Street, across the street from a house just south of downtown Redlands, she sat quietly, a high-powered parabolic microphone aimed at the house.

Chuck was meanwhile engrossed in Tom Clancy's latest novel, _Follies of War_ – a pretty good fictional account of 1986's Operation El Dorado Canyon, the America airstrikes against Qadaffi's forces in Libya. The book of course utilized Clancy's old standby characters – Jack Ryan, John Clark, Robby Jackson – but it was pretty good, far better, in fact, than his last few had been.

The F-111s had just taken off from RAF Lakenheath to head for Libya when Carina interrupted the story.

"Chuck," she said quietly.

He looked up from his book, and looked at her over the tops of his glasses. With only the reading lamp illuminating his side of the car, she didn't seem to be much more than just a silhouette.

"Yeah?"

"I think it's about time."

_Uh-oh_, Chuck thought, his stomach beginning to churn. "Uh, time for what?"

Carina turned on the reading lamp on her side of the car. She had a seductive and purely evil smile on her face. "Time for me to collect, bucko."

Chuck shook his head emphatically. "No."

"Oh, but why, Chuck?"

Chuck looked at her disbelievingly. "Perhaps because I'm married, and I have two kids, and my wife could easily kill both of us."

Carina mockingly pouted. "Spoilsport." But then, the smile returned to her face. "The facts are these, Chuckles: I saved your ass. Now I want a piece of it. And I'm gonna get it."

Chuck couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why are you so bound and determined to go through with this?" he asked incredulously. "What makes ME so special?"

Carina cocked her head to the side. "Well, first of all, you're cute. The glasses add a special touch. Secondly, I like taking what Sarah has. You know that."

"I'm aware," Chuck replied dryly. "But what exactly have you taken of hers?"

"Ha!" Carina laughed. "There was this mission, in Brazil… we were down there for a couple of months, and Sarah and Bryce were sort of on the rocks. Little does she know that Bryce and I were sleeping together almost the entire time."

Chuck's jaw dropped. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, believe it," Carina replied. "I can give you very exact details…"

"And I'd prefer it if you didn't!" Chuck interrupted forcefully. "And you'd be better off if Sarah never finds out about that. She probably will kill you."

Carina made a face. "Over Bryce? Come on, Chuck, that's been over for nearly five years. She's moved on. She's found something better."

"Exactly," Chuck replied. "So why would you want to take that away from her?"

"Oh, I don't want to take it," Carina said, smiling again. "Just borrow it."

And before Chuck could react, Carina had set the microphone on the dashboard, pushed herself out of her seat, and swung herself over into Chuck's, straddling his lap. "And something tells me you wouldn't object to being borrowed."

"No, no," Chuck objected. "This is not happening. You have surveillance to conduct."

"Whatever," Carina replied, rolling her eyes. "I've gotten exactly nothing from them all night."

And with that, she traced a fingernail behind Chuck's left ear. He closed his eyes and bit his tongue. She had hit on one of his weak spots, and she seemed to be aware of that, doing the same thing behind his other ear.

_No, no, NO!_ Chuck's mind commanded the rest of his body, and for the moment, it seemed to be working. But then, Carina's left hand found its way down to his crotch. She took hold, and he gasped, his eyes flying open.

"No," he said weakly, but opening his mouth was a mistake, as Carina quickly sealed her mouth against his, her tongue snaking its way inside his mouth.

Chuck tried desperately to force his body to keep from reacting to what Carina was doing with her tongue and her hand, but he was failing rapidly. His body began to react in a very serious fashion.

Carina realized that very quickly. "You see," she whispered in Chuck's ear, her warm breath making him gasp again, "the mind says, 'No,' but the body says, 'Oh yes!'"

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut again. He clamped his mouth closed and hunched his shoulders, hoping that his body would stop reacting, and that Carina would take the hint.

And he thought she did. She sighed. "Oh, Chuck," she breathed. "You are just too tense. You need to learn to relax and have a little fun."

He felt her slide off of his lap, and began to relax his shoulders a bit –

And then she took hold of the waistband of his pants and wrenched them violently downward, the boxers going with them. Chuck's eyes flew open as he was completely exposed to Carina.

"What the hell?!" he gasped.

"My, my, no wonder Sarah's been so happy these last couple years," Carina said approvingly. Carina moved before Chuck could even get a grasp on the situation. He could feel her lips – her tongue – oh God –

His mind was beginning to lose the capacity for coherent thought. Chuck's vision was going blurry – or maybe that was just the reading glasses screwing things up – he could see the red hair on Carina's head slowly bobbing up and down – he slammed his hands on the steering wheel, and the reading lamp reflected off the gold band on his left hand –

And that was more than enough to return Chuck to reality. He flung open the driver's door of the Dodge Magnum and practically dove out into the street, yanking his pants back up as he came to his feet. He slammed the door shut, and leaned against the side of the car, breathing heavily.

A moment later, the shotgun door opened, and Carina stepped out. "Really?"

Chuck looked up, locking eyes with her across the roof of the car, a mixture of disbelief and rage written on his face. "You're fucking psychotic, you know that?!"

"Oh, come on, Chuck, no harm, no foul. Hell, you could've at least let me finish."

"No harm no FOUL?!" Chuck felt like he was going crazy. "You tried to make me cheat on Sarah!"

"No," Carina corrected him, "your body was doing that all on its own. I was just trying to encourage your mind."

"Fuck you," Chuck spat.

"That's actually what I was going for," Carina replied cheekily. "Back in the car?"

"No!" Chuck shouted. "Go to hell!"

Apparently they were a bit too loud, because at that moment, the door of the house across the street opened. "_¡Odele, vato!_" Chuck heard. "You wanna keep it the fuck down out here, eh?"

Chuck whirled around – and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The images came fast and furious. The pictures of him, the documentation. The videos of the things he'd done. The name – Alberto Calijo, _El Anillo del Fuego_.

As his vision returned to normal, he could hear Calijo still shouting at him from across the street. "Seriously, yo!" he heard. "You and your bitch got a problem, get back in the car and shout it out. There's people tryin' to sleep!"

Another man joined Calijo on the porch. "Yo, 'Berto, what's goin' on?"

Then the man looked across the street, saw Carina – and his jaw dropped in disbelief. "_¡Pinche puta!_" he swore. "That bitch was with the group that attacked us in Norwalk!"

"Oh, SHIT," Chuck uttered. He looked back over at Carina. "Get back in the fucking car!"

He wrenched open the driver's door, and cranked the engine over, putting the station wagon in drive as soon as it had started. He punched the gas and the Hemi engine responded, rocketing the car away from the curb before Carina even had the chance to get her seatbelt on.

Behind him, Chuck could see men pour out of the house, scrambling to get into a Ford Ranger pickup and a Chevy Impala sedan. The lights on both came on, and they both took off like a shot after Chuck.

Chuck took a hard left onto Fern Avenue, and then blasted out into traffic on Redlands Boulevard. Wrenching up the handbrake as he shot out into the thoroughfare, he powerslid to the left into the westbound lanes of Redlands Boulevard. Releasing the handbrake, he punched the gas again and flew toward downtown, the two Slayers vehicles still hot on his tail.

He shot down the street at nearly seventy miles an hour, scattering cars and pedestrians as he flew. Chuck heard the occasional shot come from the cars behind him, but nothing came close to hitting his car.

At this point, Chuck had no idea where he was going, but he knew he had to get the hell away from those two cars behind him. As he was passing the Redlands Mall, he took a hard right at the stoplight for the mall entrance. Putting the mall behind him, he accelerated down Third Street –

To find that it ended at a parking lot. "Oh, hell," he breathed, gunning the engine as the two gang cars followed him up the street. He took the driveway into the parking lot hard enough to scrape the bottom of the car, and spun the steering wheel to the left, the Ranger and the Impala on his rear bumper like white on rice.

It was at that moment that Chuck realized he was in the parking lot of a Krikorian theatre. A BIG one. And there were a LOT of people. "Oh dear God," he muttered, leaning on the horn.

Between the horn and the roaring of the engine, everybody thankfully got out of the way. Chuck reached the other end of the parking lot and bounced out of the driveway, flying out onto Eureka Street. He turned right and headed north – and it looked like he was headed toward the I-10 freeway.

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. If he could get to the 10, he could get away… but as he came to the freeway, he came to the sickening realization that there were no onramps from Eureka Street onto the freeway. "No, no, NO!" he whined in despair as he rocketed under the freeway – and a shot blew out the back window.

Chuck ducked, and realized that Carina had been silent since they left their surveillance position. "You!" he shouted as he took a right onto Colton Avenue. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd kept your hands off of what isn't yours!"

"ME?!" she responded in disbelief. "If you hadn't jumped out of the car and started yelling like a maniac, we would've been fine!"

"For God's sake!" Chuck shot back. "I'm a married man, and you were trying to blow me!"

Carina rolled her eyes as the speedometer hit 100. "What, and you think Sarah never did that with a married man?"

Chuck stomped on the brakes, yanked up the handbrake, and spun the wheel left. The Magnum screeched to a halt, spinning around one hundred eighty degrees as it did so. The Ranger and the Impala both swerved to miss the car, the Ranger sliding to a halt perpendicular to the road and stalling, with the Impala stopping right in front of it.

"Not recently, though," Chuck growled at Carina. "Not since we've been together."

"Well… no," she admitted. "But she did go through training at a place called the Sparrow School. And she was good. I know – I was her instructor."

Chuck looked in his rearview mirror. The driver of the Ranger was trying to get the truck started again. "I really don't care what she did before I knew her," Chuck said darkly. "All I care about is the fact that she's been faithful to me since we've been together."

Carina blew out her breath in frustration. "Yeah, she has been."

"Good," Chuck replied. "Now hold on, because I've only ever seen this work in GTA Vice City."

He popped the Magnum's transmission into reverse, and hit the gas. The distance between his rear end and the rear end of the Impala rapidly decreased. Just before impact, he saw the Impala's backup lights illuminate – but it was far too late.

The big Dodge station wagon's rear bumper impacted the Impala's tailgate at nearly forty miles per hour. Chuck winced as his body was pressed backward against the seat. The whine of distressed metal on the Magnum's rear end was nearly ear-splitting –

But it was completely worth it to watch the Impala rocket forward into the side of the Ranger. The Ranger slowly tipped over, and as Chuck watched, a geyser of coolant shot skyward from the Impala's front end.

With a grim smile, Chuck shifted the transmission into drive, and pressed the Magnum's accelerator to the floor, praying that it would still go forward.

And go forward it did, the rear tires spinning, and then shooting the Dodge station wagon forward again. The Firestone Slayers were left far behind, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Fifteen minutes later, as the damaged station wagon entered the city of Fontana, Chuck looked over at Carina. "Against my better judgment, I'm not going to tell Sarah about this," he said quietly. "But if you ever do something like that again, I WILL tell her, and then may God have mercy on your soul."

Carina said nothing. She just looked ahead, silently staring forward as the Dodge drove into the night.

* * *

**12:05 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Friday, July 13****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

The station wagon rolled into the garage just after midnight. Chuck cursed how loud the garage door was as it closed.

And clearly, it was loud enough to wake Sarah, as the door from the laundry room opened and she stepped into the garage. Turning on the lights, her left eyebrow raised as she took in the damage to the car.

"Trouble?" she asked sardonically as Chuck stepped out of the car.

Chuck said nothing at first, just stepped to his wife and embraced her tightly. She returned the embrace, and then he pulled back and kissed her on the forehead.

He looked down at her and smiled tiredly. "You have no idea."


	11. The Man Comes Around

**2:35 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Saturday, July 21****st****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

A Saturday afternoon in July. A high of 82 in the Valley. A group of good friends.

No better excuse for an afternoon barbecue.

The Bartowskis had decided to host it in their rather spacious backyard. Chuck had set up one of the televisions outside so that they could all watch the Dodgers and the Red Sox in interleague play down at Dodger Stadium. The Dodgers were pounding the Red Sox, much to the delight of everybody but Sarah, who was rather pissed at how poorly her Red Sox were playing that season.

But right at the moment, Sarah had peeled herself away from the debacle in Chavez Ravine to put Lisa and John down for their afternoon naps. When John had started tugging at his ear ten minutes before – his way of communicating that he was ready for a nap – and Lisa had gotten cranky, Sarah knew that it was time.

Sometimes she wished she could be a toddler. Toddlers had it so much easier. They could take naps and forget about the world.

Not so adults. Especially adults in her profession. Especially adults who had co-workers who were total sluts.

Sarah's eyes narrowed as she remembered what had happened eight and a half days prior.

Chuck had just returned home from his surveillance mission in Redlands with Carina. Sarah had been curious about the damage to the Dodge, and Chuck had explained what had occurred – how the Slayers had accidentally been alerted to their presence, and then pursued them through downtown Redlands, and then Chuck took their two vehicles out.

However, the story had seemed somewhat patchy. Sarah had decided to just leave it alone, and write the patchiness off to stress and fatigue – for the moment.

Of course, that had lasted about ten minutes, right up until Chuck had started getting undressed, and Sarah had noticed that there was lipstick on him where there MOST DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN LIPSTICK.

Needless to say, she had just about gone off the deep end. The screaming rant she went on for two minutes had woken the kids and actually caused one of their neighbors to call the police. It would've gone on for longer had Chuck not interrupted and told her everything that had happened.

Learning the truth had lessened Sarah's anger toward Chuck somewhat. She still had a white hot rage that burned against Carina, but she didn't fault Chuck for what had occurred. She was majorly pissed, however, that he hadn't just told her about it in the first place, and she was even more pissed that he had been planning to withhold it from her.

The next day, Friday the 13th, every time she had seen Carina, she'd greeted her by calling her not by her name, but by "Slut". "Hi, Slut," Sarah had said. "You got those surveillance tapes for me yet, Slut?"

Of course, that hadn't gone over very well with Carina. She and Sarah had ended up practically having a knock-down, drag-out brawl in Sarah's office, which Ellie had ended up having to break up, because for some reason, Casey, Bryce, Chuck, Morgan, and Devin all seemed to be somewhat reluctant to break up the fight. In fact, it had seemed as though they were content to just stand around and watch.

Sarah and Carina had hardly spoken for the next week, but Chuck, being Chuck, had decided that if they were inviting the rest of the company to the barbecue, it wouldn't be fair to tell Carina she wasn't welcome. Sarah had reluctantly agreed to let Carina come, after getting Chuck to agree that Sarah didn't have to be polite to or social with Carina.

Sarah sighed heavily. It hadn't always been like that between her and Carina. There had been a time when she and Casey had, by themselves, gone into a terrorist training camp in Pakistan to rescue Carina. Sarah wasn't sure if she'd be willing to do that for her old mentor now.

She leaned against the changing table and sighed again. The receiving blanket had long since been replaced, but she could still see a very, very faint blood stain on the side of the table that had just never washed out completely.

It was hard to believe it had only been five months since she had been shot by General Beckman. It seemed like it had been a lifetime.

Sarah didn't know how long she stood there before she heard a voice in the doorway. "Something on your mind?"

It was a welcome voice, to be sure, but not necessarily the voice she most wanted to hear just then. "It's no big deal, Bryce. Just the shooting, and what happened with Carina… you know how it is."

Bryce nodded as he stepped into the room. "Believe me, I do," he replied. "The pain, the confusion… I experienced that firsthand when I watched Chuck take you away."

Okay, that was not what she had been expecting. "Say what now?"

Bryce's face took on a very sincere and somewhat frightening expression. "I never got completely over you," he told her. "When you didn't pick up the phone in Los Angeles… when I heard that you and Chuck had started something… and worst of all, when I heard that you were getting married."

He took a deep breath. "I just felt like something inside of me had died. And truth be told, I've never completely recovered."

Sarah shook her head, incredulous. "Okay, look, I so cannot deal with this right now. And come on, Bryce, what about Rachel?"

Bryce narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean you can't deal with this right now? I've been dealing with it for FOUR YEARS, Sarah."

She threw her hands up in the air. "And yet you never once said anything? You can't just drop this on me, Bryce –"

He grabbed her hands as they fell, and looked into her eyes. "Then you don't have to deal with it, Sarah. Just help me."

Sarah did not like this situation one bit. "Bryce, you're starting to frighten me here," she said softly, hoping he'd take the hint.

But he didn't. Instead, he moved his hands to her shoulders. "Sarah Walker, I just can't hold back any more. I still love you. You have to know that."

And without warning, he leaned in and kissed her. Sarah's eyes went wide in alarm, her body stiff. She froze for a moment in shock.

When she heard Lisa say, "Mama?" though, it snapped her out of it. Bringing her hands up, she pushed Bryce away, making him stagger backward. Then, winding up her left arm, she hauled off and backhanded him across the face, the stone on her engagement ring tearing into his cheek.

The slap staggered him again, and he brought a hand up to his face. Bringing it away, he saw the blood. "I guess you feel differently," he said in a low voice.

"Get out," Sarah hissed. "Get the hell out, right now."

She stayed standing in the room as Bryce exited. She was still standing in the same spot two minutes later, when Chuck came into the room.

"Uh, is there a particular reason why Bryce just stormed out of here with his face bleeding?"

Sarah looked up at him, her expression guarded. "Well… in the interest of full disclosure…"

* * *

**9:30 A.M., PDT**

**Tuesday, July 24****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

It was quiet in the SCCS building. It almost seemed TOO quiet.

Morgan sat at his usual spot – the reception desk in the lobby, where he had unfortunately spent far too little time as of late. The phones hadn't rung at all that morning. Chuck and Sarah had been uncharacteristically quiet when they came in. Bryce hadn't said a word, and he'd been sporting a rather nasty looking cut on his face. Rachel Harrison had stormed in looking incredibly angry, with red rimmed eyes that looked as though they had been that way for a couple of days.

John Casey, Will Williamson, Mitch Tucker, and Carina Hansen had all stood by Morgan's desk for nearly twenty minutes as the five of them discussed in hushed voices the fact that none of them really had a clue what was going on. That had continued until Chuck had come out of his office and told them all in a very dangerous sounding voice to get the hell to work.

With all of the staff given a weekly reprieve on Tuesdays from hell at the Empire Plaza, everybody was in the office and dressed professionally. Chuck, however, was dressed in a much more somber fashion than Morgan could ever remember having seen him before.

A black Armani suit, a black Brooks Brothers shirt, a black silk tie, and black shoes. Chuck didn't really look like somebody Morgan would particularly be in the mood for messing with.

At 10:30, something particularly bizarre happened. A tone sounded over the P.A., indicating that it had been turned on. Morgan looked up quizzically – that had not before happened in the SCCS building.

A moment later, though, the distinctive, gravelly voice of Johnny Cash began to sound from the speakers.

"_And I heard, as it were, the voice of thunder. One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see,' and I saw, and behold, a white horse."_

The door to Chuck's office flew open, and he slowly walked out, his posture stiff, his step almost military. Morgan was alarmed to see Chuck's Ruger .357 revolver strapped to his hip rather than in its usual shoulder holster.

"Chuck, what the hell is going on?"

_There's a man goin' 'round, takin' names… he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same… there'll be a golden ladder reachin' down, when the man comes around._

"Not now, Morgan," Chuck replied, his voice quiet but deadly. He strode past Morgan's desk toward the door to the stairway.

"Chuck, buddy, listen, I don't know exactly what you're planning on doing, but maybe you should stop and breathe, think about this a minute?"

_The hairs on your arm will stand up, at the terror in each sip and in each sup…will you partake of that last offered cup, or disappear into the potter's ground? When the man comes around._

Morgan had interposed himself between Chuck and the stairwell door. "Chuck, seriously. I don't like the look in your eyes."

Chuck looked down at Morgan, and his expression softened a little. "Morgan, listen to me very carefully. What is about to happen is completely deserved. Somebody is probably going to get their ass kicked. But the gun… it's just for show, okay?"

_Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers… one hundred million angels singin'… multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum…_

Morgan still didn't like what looked to be occurring, but he was willing to trust his oldest friend's judgment. "Alright, Chuck. Just, try not to do too much damage, okay?'

Chuck nodded. "That I can assure you of. I'm still just a weenie civilian, remember?"

He opened the stairwell door and started up to the second floor, Morgan right behind him.

_Voices callin', voices cryin', some are born and some are dyin'. It's Alpha and Omega's kingdom come._

Chuck took the stairs two at a time, with Morgan struggling to keep up. When he reached the top, he slammed the crash bar into the door. The door flew open, banging against the wall.

Chuck stood on the administration floor, looking across the cubicles. Every eye in the room had turned to him, and the door to Sarah's office cracked open. She looked out, wondering what the hell was going on.

A grim smile appeared on Chuck's face. "Oh, Bryce…"

_And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree, and the virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree… it's hard for thee to kick against the pricks._

Bryce rose slowly from his desk. "Yes, Chuck?" he asked, his voice guarded.

"Come here a moment, would you?" Chuck replied. He began to walk toward Bryce's cubicle. Bryce exited the cubicle and met Bryce halfway.

Chuck slowly raised his left hand to Bryce's eye level, the back of his hand toward Bryce. "Take a good look at my hand," he said. "Notice what's on the ring finger?"

_Till Armageddon, no shalam, no shalom. Then the father hen will call his chickens home. The wise men will bow down before the throne, and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns, when the man comes around._

Bryce gulped visibly. "Chuck, seriously, it wasn't what you think it was…"

Chuck ignored him. "Do you know whose hand the matching ring is on?"

Bryce nodded. "I do, Chuck, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"Spare me your platitudes, Bryce," Chuck growled. "I made a vow to Sarah, and she made a vow to me. How DARE you try to tamper with that."

_Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down, when the man comes around._

"Chuck –"

Bryce had been so fixated on Chuck's left hand that he didn't even notice when Chuck's right hand shot up, balled into a fist, and headed directly for Bryce's face. It impacted Bryce's left cheek at an alarming rate of speed. There was a sickening crack, and Bryce was knocked off his feet, drawing a gasp from Rachel Harrison.

Bryce rolled over, his face throbbing. He pushed himself up to his knees, and brought his hand to his mouth. It came away covered in blood. He slowly turned to face Chuck –

_Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers… one hundred million angels singin'… multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum…_

- and Chuck's left foot caught Bryce just under the ribcage, throwing him backwards to land on the floor. Bryce doubled over in pain, a cough involuntarily making its way up from his lungs. The cough was accompanied by a fresh burst of blood from the injury to his mouth.

Now Bryce was mad, but unfortunately for him, anger was not quite enough to overcome the pain he was in. "You know, Chuck," he gasped as he struggled to his feet, "I was trained by the CIA. I know a very large number of ways to kill you."

"Save it," Chuck growled, unsnapping his holster and withdrawing the .357 revolver.

_Voices callin', voices cryin', some are born and some are dyin'. It's Alpha and Omega's kingdom come. And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree, and the virgins are all trimming their wicks._

Bryce was experiencing a feeling he hadn't experienced in a very long time. Fear. "Uh, Chuck, what exactly do you plan to do with that?" he asked, his hands slowly rising into the air.

Sarah's office door had come all the way open, and there was a look of shock on her face – but Bryce noticed that neither she nor anybody else was moving to intervene.

Chuck cocked the hammer on the revolver. "Sarah is my wife, Bryce," he replied, ignoring Bryce's question. "She moved on from you many years ago, and it's time for you to do the same."

_The whirlwind is in the thorn tree, it's hard for thee to kick against the pricks, in measured hundredweight and penny pound, when the man comes around._

Chuck slowly released the hammer, letting it back down. Bryce breathed a sigh of relief.

"You've been my friend for too long for me to do something really stupid," Chuck told Bryce. "But you will never, ever touch Sarah again."

Bryce nodded, as Chuck continued. "You are suspended for ten days, without pay," Chuck said. "You are not to enter the SCCS building during that time. You are free to contact any SCCS staff, including Sarah. However, if you contact her, it is to be on a professional basis only."

"Thank you, Chuck," Bryce said quietly.

Chuck nodded. "You're welcome, Bryce. But let me make something clear – if you ever, EVER even think about going anywhere near Sarah again, you will be terminated."

He replaced the gun in its holster and snapped it shut. "And I don't mean you'll be fired."

"_And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts. And I looked, and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and hell followed with him."_


	12. Busted

**10:00 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Sunday, August 26****th****, 2012**

**Studio City, California**

Things were not good. Things were very much not good.

Well, some things were very much not good. Other things were great.

As far as Nerd Cave Video Games, LLC, was concerned, things were freakin' fantastic. They had just sold their fifth video game, and had acquired the rights to the old Sim City franchise from Maxis. Section Eight and Warner Brothers were going ahead with filming on the _Mindnode_ pilot, and after meeting with the cast, Chuck had grudgingly okay'd Anton Yelchin and Miley Cyrus.

As far as Studio City Consulting Services, Inc., was concerned, however, things sucked a big one. Absolutely no headway had been made on the Firestone Slayers case. Chuck, Morgan, Casey, and Sarah were still stuck in their undercover positions at Empire Plaza during the week. Bryce and Carina were both on the shit list after their little stunts in July. Staff morale was terrible, although Casey's spirits seemed to be revived every day after he visited the shooting range.

Things were pretty good at home. Chuck and Sarah's relationship hadn't suffered too terribly from the incidents with Bryce and Carina. If anything, it had grown stronger after dealing with those little challenges.

Chuck had wanted to educate the kids entirely through Intersect encoding – his justification was that it would make their life easier and that they'd be little geniuses. Sarah had said absolutely not. She wanted John and Lisa to have a traditional education – her justification being that since both she and Chuck were freakin' geniuses anyway, they should have no problem.

However, after Chuck did a thorough study of the Los Angeles Unified School District's curriculum, Sarah agreed to let him encode certain things – but not everything. And so, now, every time the kids watched an episode of _Sesame Street_ on DVD, they were also learning AP Calculus, physics, French, and eschatology. Chuck didn't expect them to ever have any practical use for the last one, but he thought that theological studies of the end times might be fun.

What pleased Chuck the most, though, was that Sarah was starting to give some serious thought to adoption. She hadn't said anything about it to him yet, and he knew that it was probably still a pretty sensitive topic for her. However, he had left a booklet on the kitchen counter one afternoon – totally inadvertently – and when he next saw it, it was in her nightstand, with several pages dog-eared.

But the good things were the furthest from Chuck's mind right at the moment that they could possibly be. Rick Pope and Sam Tyler were both looking for updates on the mission and wanting to know why the hell nothing had happened yet.

What was Chuck supposed to tell them? "I'm sorry, gentlemen, we're completely incompetent and can't deal with a street gang; in addition, one of my agents tried to blow me on a stakeout, and then I beat the hell out of another agent after he made a pass at my wife"? He had the distinct feeling that that would not go over well.

That's when Chuck's phone rang. He sighed. This wouldn't be good. It would be one of those two, calling for their update.

But it wasn't. Chuck did a double-take when he looked at the phone and saw Sarah's picture – the picture he'd snapped of her so long before, when he'd known her for just a couple of weeks.

Confused, he pushed the call button. "Hey," he said. "What's going on?"

There was a tremor in Sarah's voice that he had never heard before. "You need to come home, right now," she told him, not leaving it open for discussion.

"Uh, okay," he replied. He knew better than to argue.

And he certainly wasn't going to walk home, either – like he had walked to work that morning. He ran downstairs to the garage and got in, as Morgan called it, the Hoffmobile – his 1982 Trans Am. The Chevy 350 small block engine roared as Chuck brought the car to life. He sped out of the garage onto Vantage, took a hard left, and almost immediately a right out onto Ventura Boulevard.

Two minutes later, he roared into the driveway of his house. He didn't even bother with the garage – the Magnum and Sarah's old 911 – both finally repaired – were in there. He ran up to the front door, and with a trembling hand, unlocked it.

Sarah was sitting, indian style, in front of the coffee table in the living room. Her face was pale, and a letter was in front of her, along with a picture and something that looked suspiciously like a lock of hair.

"What's going on?" Chuck asked.

Sarah didn't say anything, just handed him the note, the picture, and the hair.

_Mr. Bartowski – I compliment you on your ability to wreak havoc among my men. How unfortunate for you that I have the ability to do the same upon your family. – El Anillo del Fuego_

Chuck looked at the photograph. It was a picture of Lisa and John on a playground, with Sarah next to them. The playground was at North Hollywood Park, at Tujunga and Chandler. The picture had clearly been taken through the scope from a sniper rifle.

Chuck's hands started to shake as he set the picture and the note down. He looked at the lock of blonde hair in his hand. There was no question – it was Lisa's. There was even a barrette attached to it that he and Sarah had just assumed she had lost.

"Where are they?" Chuck said quietly.

"They're in the bedroom, asleep," Sarah replied. "This was just delivered by messenger, five minutes ago."

"Get them in the station wagon," Chuck nearly whispered.

Sarah nodded, and silently headed toward the twins' bedroom. Chuck pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

"Yo, Chuck!" came the voice of Morgan.

"Morgan," Chuck said, the tone in his voice instantly causing a change in Morgan's demeanor.

"Buddy… what's going on?"

"I need you to call everybody, get them to the building. Right now. Tell Ellie and Devin to make sure they bring Katie with them."

"I'm on it."

And the line disconnected. Chuck went to the garage, his world seemingly in a haze. When he got there, he found John already buckled into his carseat, and Sarah putting Lisa in hers.

Neither Sarah nor Chuck said a word as they got into the front seat of the Magnum – Sarah driving, Chuck riding shotgun. As he buckled himself in, he pulled his Ruger from under his jacket. Sarah drew her Colt and set it on the dashboard.

The drive back to the SCCS building was silent save for the sounds of the car and the occasional sigh from one of the two sleeping toddlers. When they reached the building, Sarah pulled the car directly into the garage, the door rolling shut behind the car.

Every other car was already there. Chuck smiled grimly at the thought of how efficient the team was. He and Sarah stood to either side of the elevator doors as they waited for it to arrive. When the doors opened, they both turned into it, guns aimed toward the back wall. Nobody. With each a toddler in tow, they boarded the elevator. Sarah pressed the button for the second floor.

The clearing drill was repeated on the second floor, the two Bartowskis ensuring that nobody was going to shoot them down when they exited the elevator. Scooping up the kids, they quickly crossed the floor to the conference room.

They were all there. Casey, Bryce, Carina. Morgan, Ellie, Devin, Katie. Rachel, Will, Mitch. They all looked very concerned.

Chuck and Sarah strode to the head of the table, Sarah taking her seat and holding the two kids on her lap. "These were delivered to our house about twenty minutes ago," Chuck said without preamble, handing the note, the picture, and the lock of hair to Casey.

Casey took in the three items wordlessly. His facial expression didn't change, but Chuck could see the fire of murder and hatred erupt behind his eyes. He slowly handed the items to Bryce, who had a similar reaction.

Nobody spoke as the items were passed around the table. Ellie gasped when she saw the picture, but didn't speak. When the items returned to the head of the table, Bryce finally spoke.

"What are we going to do?"

Chuck sighed. "Sarah, Ellie, and Devin are going to take the three kids and Casey's Suburban and go to Casey's safe house in Ensenada," he said.

"What?!" Sarah protested. "You can't –"

Chuck held up his hand, and she stopped. He turned and looked at her. "Please," he said quietly. "I need you to take care of our children. I need to know they're safe, and there's nobody I trust more to keep them safe than you."

Sarah looked down at the table. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't argue with Chuck's logic.

"What about the rest of us?" Casey asked, a knife edge in his voice.

Chuck looked Casey directly in the eyes.

"Kill them," he said softly. "Kill them all."

* * *

**2:15 P.M.**

**Bob Hope International Airport**

**Burbank, California**

Mitch Tucker walked slowly around the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, checking everything. The stub wings were firmly attached, and they were as heavily loaded as they could get. A .50 caliber minigun on one wing, a pod of six Hellfire missiles on the other. It would do some serious damage.

The Black Hawk was going to be held in reserve for the moment. The first target was Hermosa Audio, just down the road. Then would be the armory house in Redlands, and finally the headquarters – a bar just east of Pioneer on Firestone. That's when the helicopter would come into play.

Mitch would be flying the weapons position on the Black Hawk, with Will Williamson piloting. As Will began his own walk-around on the helicopter, Mitch began pulling pins from the Hellfire missiles.

Two Hummer H1s that had been purchased for this very purpose and parked in the hangar with the Black Hawk were being prepped for battle as well. Casey and Bryce were making sure that they were in tip-top fighting condition.

Sarah, Devin, Ellie, and the three kids had come to see them off. Sarah had spent nearly half an hour trying to convince Chuck that her place was here, but she had finally agreed to take the kids to safety.

The sound of sirens pierced the Burbank afternoon. All heads looked toward the gate on Hollywood Way as a stream of LAPD cars poured onto the airport grounds, accompanied by a SWAT truck and what looked distinctly like an armored personnel carrier.

The LAPD vehicles roared up to the SCCS hangar, and parked in a defensive perimeter around the opening. "Lovely," Casey breathed.

But the officers didn't jump out, guns in hand. Rather, the door of one car opened, and Commander Rick Pope stepped out.

"You look like you're about to go to war, Mr. Bartowski!" he called as he approached the hangar.

Chuck had a guarded look in his eyes. "Something like that," he replied cautiously.

Pope smiled. "Will a certain gang be coming out of this bruised and beaten, if they come out of it all?"

"That Suburban is headed to Ensenada," Chuck replied, avoiding the question. "It's taking my wife, my sister, my brother-in-law, my two kids, and my niece to safety. I'm not telling you anything else until that Suburban leaves."

Pope nodded, turned his back on Chuck, and walked to another cruiser. He knocked on the window, and it rolled down. Chuck couldn't hear what he was saying, but a moment later, four cruisers moved out of the perimeter and took up escort positions around the Suburban.

Commander Pope walked back over to Chuck. "Those cruisers will escort the Suburban all the way to Ensenada," he said. "They may or may not be replaced by Polícia Federal at the border, but either way, the Suburban will have an escort all the way to Ensenada."

Chuck looked at Pope with disbelief, and then jogged over to the window of the Suburban. It rolled down, and Sarah looked out at him.

"You're gonna have a police escort all the way down," he told her. "I'm not sure what's going on, but it looks like they're going out of their way to keep you safe."

She nodded, and smiled sadly. "Please be safe, Chuck," she said. "Don't do anything stupid. I want to have a husband to come home to."

Chuck smiled. "You will, I promise," he replied, trying not to choke up. He leaned in to kiss Sarah good-bye, but she reached out, and practically pulled him into the Suburban. It was almost as if it was becoming a tradition – the Chuck and Sarah doomsday kiss, just like the one on the San Pedro docks, just like the one in the CIA facility in Moab, just like the one in their garage when the NSA strike team was about to kill them.

When she released him, he opened his eyes – and saw that hers were filled with tears. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too, Sarah," he said back. Then he stepped back, and she put the Suburban into gear. The four cruisers all turned their lights on, and the SUV and its police escort pulled away.

Chuck stood watching until the five vehicles had pulled off the Burbank Airport property. When he turned, he discovered Commander Pope and Casey standing right behind him.

"You ready to take care of the Firestone Slayers?" Pope asked.

Chuck smiled grimly and nodded.

"Alright," Pope replied. "Let's go do this thing."


	13. God's Gonna Cut You Down

**3:00 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Sunday, August 26****th****, 2012**

**Bob Hope International Airport**

**Burbank, California**

Southern California was about to go to war – and less than forty people knew about it. Three of them were headed to Mexico with three kids, and two of them were sitting in a Black Hawk helicopter, waiting for the signal to deploy.

The other thirty-two people were in a rather sizable convoy about to depart from Bob Hope Airport. The gate out onto Hollywood Way was opened, and the lead LAPD cruiser pulled out, code three, lights and sirens on. A black Hummer H1 followed it.

Chuck Bartowski was at the wheel of that Hummer, with John Casey riding shotgun, wielding an M4 carbine. Another LAPD cruiser followed that Hummer, then another Hummer, with Rachel Harrison at the wheel and Bryce Larkin riding shotgun. There was another LAPD cruiser, then Mitch Tucker's Land Cruiser, with Morgan at the wheel and Carina riding shotgun. That was followed by yet another LAPD cruiser, a SWAT truck with a six-man team, another cruiser, an M3 Bradley armored personnel carrier with an eight-man police special ops team, and a sixth cruiser.

The convoy quickly covered the block down Hollywood Way, and turned left onto Empire Avenue. Chuck could feel his stomach doing somersaults, and cursed the fact that the mile and a half down Empire Avenue took less than five minutes.

The lead cruiser pulled into Empire Plaza – and all hell broke loose. The six cruisers fanned out across the parking lot, speeding toward Hermosa Audio. When they reached it, they created a perimeter around the front of the building, leaving a ten foot wide space in the middle of the perimeter. Officers clad in riot gear popped out of their cars and crouched behind their doors, guns up and aimed.

"Here we go," Chuck muttered to Casey, aiming the Hummer toward the gap in the cruisers and flooring the accelerator. The V10 engine roared, pushing the warfare-intended vehicle up to thirty miles an hour.

The Hummer shot between the cruisers. Chuck closed his eyes and braced himself – and the Hummer crashed through the front window of Hermosa Audio. He slammed on the brakes, and just as Casey had instructed him, grabbed a flash-bang grenade out of the cup holder, pulled the pin, and tossed it out the window. He closed his eyes and ducked, but was still surprised by the noise and the light.

Casey jumped out as the people inside the building staggered to their feet. Reflexively, several pulled out guns. That was their last mistake, as Carina Hansen and Bryce Larkin came running into the building. Between them and Casey, every person in the building holding a gun was dead within ten seconds.

Only one person was left standing. He was trembling in fear, his hands in the air. Chuck walked up to him slowly.

"Are you a Firestone Slayer?" he asked.

Eyes wide, the man nodded. He didn't look any older than twenty.

"Where is el Anillo del Fuego?" Chuck asked.

"_No sé,_" the man replied, the fear evident on his face.

Chuck reached under his jacket and withdrew the Ruger revolver. He raised it and jammed the barrel against the man's forehead. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes! Yes! I don't know where he is!" the man cried out. "I'm nobody important!"

Chuck looked into his eyes. This guy was clearly not important, otherwise he would've flashed on him. His eyes told Chuck that he was telling the truth. He lowered the gun, and the man sighed in relief.

"Is your car here?" Chuck asked him quietly.

"Yes," the man replied, nodding his head like a bobble-head. He pointed outside, at a Honda Civic.

"You're out of California tonight," Chuck said. "Otherwise, you join these other men. Do I make myself clear?"

Eyes wide, the man nodded again. "Get out," Chuck growled.

The man ran outside, jumped in the Civic, and tore out of the parking lot as quickly as he could.

Chuck and Casey got back into the Hummer and pulled back out of Hermosa Audio. Two police cruisers were left to secure the scene.

"Why didn't you kill him, Bartowski?" Casey asked him as the convoy reformed and pulled out of the parking lot.

Chuck turned his face toward Casey. "He's a drone, Casey, a foot soldier. He didn't make the decision to threaten my family. He just got caught up in something he probably didn't understand, and he willingly surrendered."

Casey shook his head. "You know, Chuck, they don't play by the rules… why do you?"

Chuck cocked his head to one side. "Casey, I play by the rules because I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. When my kids grow up, I don't want to tell them that their father's a murderer."

"What are you going to tell them about their mother?"

Chuck shook his head. "Don't, Casey. The people she killed, she killed because they were very bad people."

Casey's face took on an expression of surprise. "She never told you, did she?"

"Told me what, Casey?"

Casey's face took on a grim set. "Christmas Eve, 2005. She was in Brazil, on a mission. I was there, as were Carina and Bryce. The mission was to take down the da Silva government.

"Part of the mission was to destroy a pair of Tupolev model 160 'Blackjack' bombers that Russia had sold to Brazil. I had gotten intelligence regarding the bombers that would allow us to destroy them with a minimal loss of life and a maximum amount of damage to the government's reputation.

"Unfortunately, my intelligence was faulty. When the bombers were destroyed, they were loaded with Exocet cruise missiles. The missiles exploded, and took the fuel farm of the air base they were on with it. Approximately ten thousand people were killed."

Casey paused, a pained look on his face. "I abandoned the mission and blindly fled Brazil. I ended up in the mental ward at DeKalb Medical Center in Atlanta. As for Sarah, she still, to this day, blames herself for the deaths of all those innocent people."

Chuck didn't say anything, just looked ahead at the pavement of southbound I-5. Finally, he asked, "Was it really her fault?"

Casey shook his head. "No. If it was anybody's fault, it was mine. However, she felt, as the mission commander, that it was her responsibility."

Chuck put his left hand to his forehead. "God," he sighed. "Why didn't she ever tell me? She shouldn't have to carry that alone."

"I am willing to almost guarantee you that she never told you because she was afraid you'd hate her for it," Casey replied. "She has been very careful about everything she's said and done around you almost since day one. With the exception of her little breakdown after Larkin resurfaced back in 2007, she has gone out of her way to not do anything that would make you think less of her."

Chuck nodded, then took his left hand off his forehead, and pressed the button on the Bluetooth headset in his left ear. "Call Sarah," he instructed it.

Casey's eyes widened in alarm. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Calling my wife," Chuck replied. "I want to tell her that I love her."

* * *

**San Clemente, California**

The Suburban rolled through San Clemente, still flanked on all four sides by LAPD cruisers with their lights on. There had been minimal slowing, with the police cars clearing the way all the way down I-5.

The theme from _Torchwood_ began to sound through the car. Sarah rolled her eyes. Chuck had programmed it into her phone as a joke after he became the leader of this "super-secret spy organization". He had then proceeded to compare himself to Captain Jack Harkness, to which Sarah replied that if she ever caught him naked with Bryce, she would file for divorce.

She reached up and hit the button on the side of the Bluetooth on her ear. "Hello?"

"I love you," Chuck's voice sounded in her ear.

She smiled. "Well, I love you too," she replied. "What prompts this, in the face of such danger?"

She heard Chuck sigh. "Casey just told me a little story," Chuck said. "A story about, uh, Brazil."

Sarah's eyes widened and her stomach tied itself in a knot. "What about Brazil?"

"Santa Anita Air Base."

Sarah gritted her teeth and blew her breath out slowly, drawing a strange look from Ellie, riding in the shotgun seat. "God dammit," she whispered.

"Sarah, I don't care," Chuck said. "You were just doing your job. You had no way of knowing that those bombers were loaded."

She had stopped listening after he said that he didn't care. "You don't care?" she asked, almost not believing it. "You don't care that I was responsible for…"

Her voice trailed off. Despite all that Ellie and Devin knew, the Brazil mission was still heavily classified, and Sarah couldn't risk them knowing about it. Fortunately, Chuck finished the sentence for her.

"…for the deaths of ten thousand people?" he said. "No. You know me better than that. You know that I have never, ever judged you based on what you've done – just on who you are. And it's because of who you are that I love you. You know that."

Sarah began to tear up a little. "Wow," she whispered.

She could almost hear Chuck smile in response. "Hey, I knew that I was asking the female version of James Bond to marry me when I got down on my knee on Santa Monica Beach."

Sarah smiled in spite of herself. "And I knew that I was saying yes to a slightly less nerdy version of Bill Gates." That drew a giggle from Ellie.

Chuck gasped, in mock horror. "Bill Gates? Excuse me? Try Steve Jobs!" he exclaimed.

That made Sarah's smile get even bigger. "Well, either way, I love you. I really love you. I love you more than I can say."

"I love you more than that," Chuck replied, and Sarah could hear Casey groan in the background.

"Better stop," she said, "before you make Casey throw up."

"Yeah," Chuck replied. "I'd hate for the Hummer to smell like vomit."

He paused for a moment. "Tell John and Lisa that Daddy says hi, and call me when you get to Ensenada, okay?"

"Okay," Sarah said. "I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

**Glendale, California**

The convoy was now headed east on the 134 freeway, headed toward the Inland Empire. "I love you more than that?" Casey asked mockingly. "Good Lord, what is this, junior high?"

"Oh, shut up," Chuck replied. "What about you and Maya? You never talk about her, and Ellie says she never talks about you."

"There's a reason for that," Casey shot back. "We don't WANT you guys to know anything! I swear, when Sarah and your sister get together, they're worse than high school cheerleaders!"

"Okay, that's fair," Chuck replied. "But is everything okay?"

Casey smiled slightly. "Have you noticed me stressed lately?"

Chuck thought about it. No, he really hadn't. Then he thought about it a little more, and groaned. "As innocuous as that statement was, it really tells me more than I wanted to know," he said disgustedly.

* * *

**5:30 PM**

**Redlands, California**

All was quiet at the house on La Paloma Street. Ten men were inside. Some were eating, some watching television, some cleaning their weapons. None were really that tense or alert. They weren't expecting anything, and they all knew that El Anillo had threatened the man responsible for the incident a month and a half earlier, and so figured that he would back off as well.

And so none of them were expecting the door to be blown off its hinges at 5:32 PM. Nor were they expecting two men and a woman to burst in with guns blazing. And by 5:34 PM, none of them were expecting anything.

All save for one.

This one was a real diehard. He had been born into an MS 13 family, but when he was a teenager, he heard Maximillian Calijo give a speech at L.A. City College. The man had gotten him hooked – he was very much like Barack Obama in his mannerisms and the ability with which he could people at ease.

Afterwards, he had approached Calijo to ask what he could do. Calijo had introduced him to his brother, Alberto. Within a month, the boy had become a full-fledged member of the Firestone Boulevard Slayers. He had left home and moved to Norwalk. The first job he had been given was to kill a member of Mara Salvatrucha.

He had killed half a dozen all at once.

Now he was in the basement of the house in Redlands. It was full of weapons, explosives, and hard drives that detailed every last thing about the Firestone Slayers. He heard the gunshots above, heard the shouts. He knew that everything had to go.

He knelt, and grasped the crucifix around his neck. "_Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos_," he prayed. "_Santificado sea tu Nombre. Venga tu reino, hágase tu voluntad, en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy el pan de este día…_"

* * *

Casey, Bryce, and Carina came back out of the house. "It's secure!" Casey shouted. The LAPD S.W.A.T. team went running in. The three agents strolled across La Paloma Street to the vehicles.

"Quick and easy, Chuck," Casey told him. "That just leaves the bar in Norwalk."

"And that's their stronghold," Chuck reminded him. "It's gonna be a bitch."

* * *

"_Perdona nuestras deudas, como nosotros perdonamos nuestros deudores. No nos dejes caer en la tentación, sino que líbranos del malo._"

With trembling hands, the young man picked up a grenade. Holding it in his hand, he pulled the pin.

"_Porque Tuyo es el Reino, el Poder y la Gloria por siempre, Señor. Amén._"

* * *

Casey had just finished buckling himself in when the house exploded.

The fireball blew upwards, blasting through the roof, before the walls collapsed inward. The shock wave rocked the Hummer, but the pseudo-military vehicle stayed put.

The two LAPD cruisers parked in front of the house were not so lucky. They were flipped over like Hot Wheels. Fortunately, the officers who had driven them had been standing on the other side of the street, and had taken cover behind the S.W.A.T. truck when the house blew.

Chuck stared out the window in disbelief. "Oh my God... the S.W.A.T. team was in there," he whispered.

"What have we done?"


	14. Guess Things Happen That Way

**8:00 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Sunday, August 26****th****, 2012**

**San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department**

**34282 Yucaipa Boulevard, Yucaipa, California**

Fortunately, it was a big cell.

Fortunately, there was nobody in there but the group from Los Angeles.

Unfortunately, they were still in JAIL.

Chuck, Casey, Morgan, Bryce, Carina, Commander Harrison, Commander Pope, and all the surviving Los Angeles Police Department officers were sitting in the drunk tank at the sheriff's office in Yucaipa. There had been San Bernardino County Sheriff's Deputies in the area when the house on La Paloma Avenue did its exploding act, and they had showed up before anybody even realized what was going on.

They had all been hauled off to the sheriff's office in Yucaipa, and thrown in the drunk tank. Their vehicles had been impounded. Their weapons had been taken, but they'd been allowed to keep their cell phones.

Chuck was not looking forward to the call he was about to make. It had to be done, though. He sighed and dialed.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. "Um, Tyler, yeah, secure?"

"Director Tyler, this is Chuck Bartowski. I am not on a secure line."

"Bartowski… it's 11:00 PM out here. What's going on?"

Chuck looked up at the ceiling. "Uh, I'm in jail. In fact, we're all in jail."

There was silence for a moment. Chuck counted down in his head. _Three, two, one…_

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

There it was. "Yeah, um, we invaded a Firestone Slayers armory house in Redlands, California. It seems that one of their number was in the basement with a shitload of explosives, and he set it off. The house exploded, the houses on either side of it caught fire, and an entire SWAT team was lost in the explosion."

Chuck could almost hear Tyler's headache building. "So what the hell do you expect me to do about it?"

"Well, we need to get out, finish our operation," Chuck replied.

"Bartowski… Agent Hansen has an NCA ID card. For God's sake, just have her use it and get the hell out of there."

Chuck's brow furrowed. "She does?"

"Yes, Bartowski. Now get out of the jail. I'm going back to bed."

Chuck hung up the phone. "Carina!"

Her head turned. She stood and walked over toward him. "Yes, Chuck?"

"You have a national command authority ID card?"

A mischievous look crossed her face, and she reached into her pocket, coming back out with a gray and red card. "Oh, did I forget to mention that?"

Casey looked at Chuck, and then at Carina. "What the hell?" he objected. "Walker has one, she has one? That's bullshit!"

"I don't have one either," Bryce added. "They were both deep cover, though. We're not."

"And none of that matters right now," Chuck interjected. "Carina, I need you to use that and get us out of here, right now."

She held the card up, looked at it, then at Chuck, and then tucked the card into her bra. "It's gonna cost you."

"Oh for Christ's sake," Chuck growled. "We are NOT going through that again. I'll call Sarah and have her drive up here with hers if that's how it's gonna be."

"You're not gonna do that, though," Carina replied. "You wouldn't have her leave the safety of Ensenada. I have something you want, and if you're gonna get it, you're gonna have to give me something I want."

Chuck growled unintelligibly. He slammed his hands down on the bench he was sitting on and shot to his feet. Before anybody could react, he had crossed the room to where Carina was, grabbed her by the neck, and slammed her against the wall. Sticking his hand down her shirt, he retrieved the NCA card.

Backing away from her, he removed his hand from her neck. Her eyes had gone wide, and she was breathing heavily – but then, a trace of a smile crossed her lips.

"Oh, now I want more," she whispered.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "YO!" he shouted, trying to get the attention of the jailer.

"Fuck off," the jailer replied.

"YO!" Chuck shouted again, angrily this time. "NATIONAL COMMAND AUTHORITY ID NUMBER SIX FOUR ONE SIX NINE SIX ONE!"

That got the jailer's attention. "I beg your pardon?"

"Go say that same thing to your boss, jackass!" Chuck shot back.

The jailer disappeared. A moment later, he appeared with the sheriff. He didn't look like much of a cop – he was about Morgan's height, but about Casey's weight. He was balding, and looked almost like the Pillsbury Doughboy. His nametag said "Mars".

"It appears you're here on a higher authority than I am," he grumbled. "But I am still the law in San Bernardino County. Get your shit, and get the hell out of my jurisdiction. Don't come back. _Capisce_?"

"Gotcha," Chuck replied. He tossed the NCA ID card back to Carina. That's when his phone rang.

He pulled the iPhone from its holster. It showed a 310 number that he didn't recognize. "Hello?" he answered.

"Chuck, George Clooney."

Chuck sighed. "This isn't the best time, George."

"We need to talk, though. We've got a problem with the pilot."

"Crap," Chuck grumbled as he strode out of the sheriff's station, Casey and all the others right behind him. "What's up?"

"Miley Cyrus has backed out. We've got nobody for the Tara Pierce character."

"Oh for Christ's sake," Chuck spat. "Not enough money for her?"

"Pretty much," Clooney replied.

"Can we get Kristen Bell?" Chuck asked. "She did the game, she did the movie… maybe she'll do the TV show?"

"Sorry, Chuck, she's not available. We've got Katharine McPhee lined up for it."

That stopped Chuck dead. "Really? Katharine McPhee?"

"Yeah, and she wants to meet you."

"Uh… yeah, that might be a little difficult. I'm out of town right now. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

Chuck could hear Clooney sigh. "Can you be back by Wednesday morning?"

"I can try…"

"Alright," Clooney replied. "I'll tell her Wednesday, 10:00 AM. Grand Lux at the Beverly Center work?"

"Yeah, that'll be fine," Chuck sighed. "Katharine McPhee, Grand Lux at Beverly, 10:00 AM, Wednesday. I'll be there."

"See you then." And Clooney disconnected.

Chuck was about to get into the Hummer when he realized that there was nobody behind him. He turned around – and every man in the group had stopped about ten feet behind him. Carina and Rachel were mounting their vehicles, and looked back at the group curiously.

"You get to have a face-to-face with Katharine McPhee?" Casey finally asked.

Chuck shrugged. "Yeah…"

"You lucky bastard."

* * *

**8:30 P.M.**

**Agua Caliente**

**Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico**

Sarah had never been to Casey's house in Ensenada before, but Devin and Ellie both had. Ellie had actually guided Sarah into the Agua Caliente neighborhood off of the road out to La Bufadora.

As Sarah pulled up to the house, her jaw dropped. It was damned incredible. A two story house, built with faux-Colonial architecture, the back of the house literally opened out onto the beach. This kind of house would've pulled in millions in southern California, and Sarah wondered exactly how the hell Casey had pulled together the money for it.

The four LAPD cruisers all parked outside the house as Sarah pulled into the driveway. The two Polícia Federal cruisers that had followed them from the border had stationed themselves at the guard shack into the gated community. From what Sarah could see, there would be more than enough room for the LAPD officers to crash as well.

As Ellie and Devin guided the sleepy toddlers into the house, Sarah pulled out her phone. It registered a company called Telcel GSM, but she was getting five bars, so she could've cared less if it was the Al Qaeda Cell network. She dialed Chuck's phone.

After two rings, it was answered. "Hey, babe."

"Hey," she replied. "Where are you guys?"

"We're just now headed out of San Bernardino County," Chuck said.

Sarah frowned. "What took so long?"

"Well, uh, we sort of blew up a house in Redlands," Chuck replied. "The entire SWAT team was lost. Then four LAPD officers stayed behind to do reports on that."

"Oh my God," Sarah said. "What happened?"

"San Bernardino County Sheriff thinks that there was a gang member in the basement with a bunch of explosives," Chuck replied. "He, well, went out in a blaze of glory. They found pieces of hard drives down there, so they're guessing he was trying to protect any information on the gang.

"Then, the Sheriff's department showed up and detained us all. I called Sam Tyler, and he told us to use Carina's NCA ID to get out. By the way, Casey and Bryce are both rather jealous that you and Carina have those and they don't."

"Perks of the job," Sarah said. "So that worked, I take it?"

Chuck hesitated. "Well, there were, uh… complications."

Sarah sighed. She just bet there were complications. "Let me guess. Carina complications."

"Yeah," Chuck replied wryly. "Let's just say she stuck the card in her bra and dared me to go after it."

Sarah rolled her eyes skyward. "Well?"

"I decided to go for the intimidation and the quick extraction," Chuck said. "I slammed her against the wall. My hand was in and out with the card inside of a second."

"So there was no extracurricular activity?" Sarah asked.

"None," Chuck confirmed. "However… it seems that my aggressive actions just turned her on that much more. She is getting to be a real problem."

Sarah sighed. "Maybe you should just fuck her and get her off your back," she mumbled.

"WHAT?!"

"Nothing," Sarah replied.

"That would not solve ANYTHING," Chuck insisted. "I'm pretty sure it would just make her worse. Besides which… I'm pretty sure I'd be disappointed."

"Oh?"

Chuck laughed. "No POSSIBLE way she'd measure up to you."

"Okay, buster," Sarah shot back, "you aren't allowed to talk to me that way when I'm a couple hundred miles away and the only male adult around here is Captain Awesome."

"Like you can't take care of it yourself," Chuck said dryly.

She laughed. "Oh, you are in so much trouble when we're back in Los Angeles."

"I'm looking forward to it!"

Sarah smiled and shook her head. "Okay, I need to go take care of the twins."

"I love you…"

"I love you too."

* * *

**10:15 P.M.**

**The Pioneer Room**

**Norwalk, California**

On any given night, the Pioneer Room was packed. Usually, it was packed with a pretty large and diverse crowd. People from all over Los Angeles would come to the bar. Even though it was strictly defined Slayers' territory, Alberto Calijo had decreed that all were welcome, and on any given night, you could usually find people from almost every gang in Los Angeles there, along with individuals from as far away as Malibu and Ventura.

However, on this particular evening, the only people in the Pioneer Room were Firestone Boulevard Slayers. They were running scared. Word had gotten out about the ambush on Hermosa Audio in Burbank and the destruction of the armory house in Redlands. Alberto Calijo was cursing himself for threatening Charles Bartowski – he should've known better than to threaten the man's children.

And when the door was blown off its hinges, despite the shock, Calijo was not really surprised to see Bartowski himself stride through the door of the bar. Bartowski was followed by a large group of men and women, all dressed in black, all carrying rather formidable looking weapons.

"The Ring of Fire," Chuck said, seeing Calijo.

"The pain in my ass," Calijo shot back. "What do you want?"

"Disarm, now," Chuck replied. "Be out of California by the time the sun comes up tomorrow morning, or you will all be hunted down."

Calijo snorted. "_Pinche gringo_, how stupid can you get?" he asked Chuck. "This is my turf, not yours!"

"And when you associated yourself with Fulcrum, you lost the right to have anything," Chuck said, softly but dangerously.

Calijo's jaw dropped. "How the fuck could you possibly know about that?"

"I know many things that would surprise you," Chuck growled. "Now, last chance. Disarm and get out of California, or die."

"Hey, fuck you, man!" one of Calijo's lieutenants called from behind him. "We ain't goin' nowhere, bitch!"

Calijo shook his head, and was about to speak, but Chuck beat him to it. "Fine," he replied. "I wash my hands of your demolition."

He turned and walked back out of the bar, the other men and women following him. Calijo whirled on his lieutenant. "You're a fucking idiot," he hissed at him, then brushed past him, headed for the back.

Calijo burst into his office and pulled out a duffel bag. Spinning open the safe, he began to shovel cash into it. When the safe was empty, he reached to the cabinet above him, grabbed several guns, and swept them into the bag.

That's when he heard the helicopter.

"_Madre de Dios,_" he whispered. Picking up the bag, he dashed out of his office, turned, and ran through the kitchen. He burst through the emergency exit and out into the alley behind the bar.

Looking up, he could see the silhouette of a Black Hawk helicopter against the moon. "Oh my God," he said in horror. He turned and ran away from the bar as fast as he could.

A moment later, he heard the distinctive sound of a fifty-caliber machine gun, followed by six explosions in rapid succession. He turned around and watched in horrified amazement as the Pioneer Room – and with it, the Firestone Slayers – utterly ceased to be.

* * *

Chuck stood across Norwalk Boulevard from where the Pioneer Room burned and watched, his eyes devoid of emotion. It was finished.

He crossed to where Morgan stood. "Switch vehicles with me," he ordered. Morgan nodded and handed Chuck the keys to the Land Cruiser in exchange for the keys to the Hummer Chuck had been driving.

Casey jogged over. "Where to next?"

Chuck turned to look at Casey, and Casey watched as exhaustion suddenly swept itself across the younger man's face. "I'm going to Ensenada, to see my family," he replied tiredly. "I want everybody else to take the vehicles back to Studio City. Take the next couple days off. Help the LAPD out with whatever they need to clean up. Casey, file a full report with Director Tyler and Senator Graham."

Casey nodded. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Chuck shook his head. "I don't know, Casey. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."

"I understand," Casey said. "You do what you need to do. We'll take care of stuff here."

Chuck nodded tiredly. "Thank you, John." He got into the Land Cruiser, started it up, and pulled away.

Casey stood watching as the taillights of the Land Cruiser disappeared down the street. Bryce and Carina walked up behind him. "Is he gonna be okay?" Bryce asked worriedly.

"It's going to be rough," Casey said, "but I think he'll be fine once he's back with Sarah and his kids."

* * *

**2:30 A.M.**

**Monday, August 27th**

**Ensenada**

Chuck followed the GPS directions right into the driveway, parking behind the Suburban. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to convince the Polícia Federal guarding the front gate that, yes, he was supposed to be there, and yes, he was in fact the husband of the woman who they were there to protect.

He stumbled tiredly up to the front door. An LAPD officer sat outside, on guard. "Evening, Mr. Bartowski," he said upon seeing Chuck, standing to his feet.

Chuck just nodded. The officer opened the door and let him in.

The house was huge. Chuck had no idea where he was going, so he headed to the kitchen to get something to drink and clear his head.

As luck would have it, Devin was in the kitchen. "Chuckster!" he said quietly. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

Chuck nodded. "It's done," he replied. "I wanted to come down here, be with Sarah and the kids."

"Sure," Devin said. "Here, let me show you up to where Sarah's at."

Chuck followed Devin upstairs and down a hall. A state of near-sleep hazed Chuck's consciousness as he opened the door and entered the bedroom.

When the door opened, the dim light from the hallway played across Sarah's face, stirring her. She sat up, holding a hand in front of her face to block the light. "Chuck?" she asked, confusion and sleep tinging her voice. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," he replied.

She smiled sleepily. "Good. I hate sleeping alone."

Chuck smiled in spite of himself. "So do I."

* * *

**7:30 A.M.**

**Sacramento, California**

Maximillian Calijo exited his opulent apartment and headed downstairs to where the Towncar would be waiting for him. As a citizen of the great state of California, he served in the state Assembly as the representative from District 56. As a highly corrupt gang member, his ties to Al Qaeda and Fulcrum had made his life very, very comfortable.

However, the last person he was expecting to see when he got in the back of his Towncar was his brother, Alberto. And Alberto looked like crap. He looked exhausted. He was dirty, and it looked like he had soot on his forehead.

"Berto?" Calijo asked in surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"It was that Bartowski, Max!" Alberto said. "He took down the Burbank store, and he blew up the house in Redlands, and then he had a helicopter that utterly destroyed the bar in Norwalk!"

Calijo's jaw dropped. Bartowski? Charles Bartowski? The Human Intersect? The lameass nerd from Studio City had single-handedly taken down the Firestone Boulevard Slayers?

"_¿Cualquier cosa sobrevivió?_"

"_Nada,_" Alberto replied. "_Todo fue destruido. Todos estan muertos._"

"Shit," Max Calijo breathed. He sighed.

"Berto, you have failed me," he said quietly. Reaching under the seat in front of him, his hand came out with a silenced Walther P9 handgun.

Alberto Calijo's eyes went wide. "Max, what the hell is this?"

"I'm sorry, Berto," Calijo replied. "This is the end."

He leveled the P9 at his brother's chest, and pulled the trigger once, twice, three times.

Alberto Calijo's eyes registered shock as the bullets impacted his chest, and then they clouded. He slumped over in his seat.

"_Lo siento, mi hermano_," Calijo said. He placed the gun back under the seat as the Towncar pulled up in front of the state Capitol building.

Barely opening the door, he slid out. Closing the door again behind him, he was confronted by several journalists with cameras and microphones.

"_Mr. Calijo! Mr. Calijo! Did you hear about the fire at the bar in your district?_"

"Yes, I did," he replied. "It's a great tragedy. My condolences go to the families of the people who were at the bar."

Another reporter tried to ask him a question, but one of his aides appeared from nowhere. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Calijo is very busy this morning. He'll be able to answer more questions later."

As Calijo climbed the steps into the Capitol building, his mouth took on a grim set.

"This isn't over yet, Bartowski," he muttered to himself. "Not by a long shot."

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Yes, the San Bernardino County Sheriff is modeled on Keith Mars from the TV series _Veronica Mars_, for those of you who may have been wondering._


	15. Get Rhythm

**9:55 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Wednesday, August 29****th****, 2012**

**The Beverly Center**

The Grand Lux Café didn't actually even open for another hour, but when George Clooney calls a restaurant manager and tells him that he needs to have a meeting at the restaurant, the manager doesn't say no.

And so it was that Chuck Bartowski sat at a table by himself, nursing a very strong cup of coffee, waiting for Clooney and Katharine McPhee to arrive. However, his mind was anywhere but 131 North La Cienega Boulevard.

Chuck hadn't been able to stop thinking about the events of Sunday. He knew that his decision to wipe out the Firestone Boulevard Slayers had been a knee-jerk, heat-of-the-moment reaction to the fact that Alberto Calijo had dared to touch his little girl. He also knew that he was responsible for the deaths of probably close to a hundred gang members, not to mention a six-man LAPD SWAT team.

To a man, everybody he knew insisted that the SWAT team wasn't his fault. Casey, Bryce, Carina, Will, Mitch, Rachel, Morgan, Devin, Ellie, and most importantly, Sarah. It didn't matter to Chuck, though. He couldn't get the faces of those men off his conscience.

He had wanted to spend more time in Ensenada, where he had nothing to worry about except playing with his kids on the beach. But he had promised he'd be back for the meeting this morning.

Chuck sighed, and it was such a deep sigh that it nearly hurt his chest when he released it. This had been going on, nearly non-stop, for almost five years. Was his life better because of the Intersect? There was no question. No Intersect meant no Sarah, which was something he couldn't even ponder.

But of all the times he had been out of Southern California since then, only one – their honeymoon – had been for something non-CIA related. Chuck needed a vacation. He needed a vacation badly.

However, right at the moment, he had a television pilot to worry about. A television pilot based on a movie based on a video game – the video game that had allowed Chuck to tell Buy More to "take this job and shove it".

The problem with the pilot was the actress playing the character of Tara Pierce. Chuck had based Tara Pierce on Sarah. She had been voiced by Kristen Bell in the game, and then Bell had played her in the movie. Miley Cyrus had been lined up to play her in the pilot – something Chuck had been apprehensive about as it was. Then, she had backed out, and Kristen Bell hadn't been available.

Clooney's Section Eight production company had moved quickly, lining up Katharine McPhee to take over the role. Chuck was set to meet with her this morning to make sure she would work for the role.

And here they came through the restaurant. Clooney stuck out anywhere he went in Los Angeles – his instantly recognizable face, his height, the gray hair giving him a certain distinguished air. As far as Katharine McPhee went, she was incredibly attractive, and –

_Good Lord, that shirt could cause a traffic accident_, Chuck thought, trying not to stare at McPhee's cleavage. He stood up as they approached the table.

* * *

**10:01 AM**

**St. John of God Catholic Church**

**Norwalk, California**

The church was packed. Every spot in every pew had a person in it, and there were more standing along the walls.

Maximillian Calijo looked on the proceedings with no small amusement. To think that his brother, the failure, could garner such a following – especially since more than ninety percent of his vaunted Firestone Boulevard Slayers were dead.

He rolled his eyes at what he considered to be the ridiculous pageantry of a Catholic funeral – the incense, the altar boys with their candle lighters, the priest in all his pompous vestments, the icons carried with such reverence. An avowed atheist, Max Calijo could barely tolerate the overly religious nature of the rest of his family and, indeed, of so many members of the Latino community.

Oh, sure, it brought them hope. They said it gave them strength. He found this preposterous. Max Calijo did not deny what he was – a murderer and a thief, just as every member of the Firestone Slayers were. How could they possibly for one minute think that a just "God" would forgive them of the crimes they had committed?

Calijo did not pretend that he would find himself in paradise. He didn't believe that there was an afterlife. And so he figured why hold back while on Earth?

Nonetheless, as a public figure, he had to make the proper overtures. And so he rose with the rest of the congregation.

The priest raised his hands. "_La gracia del Señor Jesucristo y el amor de Dios y la beca del Espiritu Santo sean con ustedes._"

The congregation spoke as one. "Amen."

"_En el agua de bautismo, Alberto Alejandro Calijo y Ortiz murió con Jesucristo y se levantó con el Señor a la nueva vida. Puede ahora compartir con la gloria eternal del Señor._"

As Alberto Calijo's only surviving family member, it fell to Max to perform the familial duty of placing the pall on the coffin. Forcing a look of grief onto his face, Max rose from his seat in the front pew, advanced to the coffin, and unfolded the Mexican flag over the coffin with the proper reverence.

It was all he could do to keep from snorting in disgust as he sat back down. Mexican, indeed. Alberto had been born in Los Angeles. He grew up in Los Angeles. He had spent maybe a year, total, of his entire life in Mexico. This ceremony was making Max sick.

* * *

**10:03 A.M.**

**The Beverly Center**

After proper introductions had been made and a server had taken George and Katharine's orders, they got to talking. "So, I wanted you to meet with Katharine to see if she's a suitable replacement for the role," Clooney said.

Chuck nodded. "I do appreciate that."

He cocked his head slightly to the side and fixed Katharine with an appraising eye. "What do you know about the world of international espionage?" he asked her.

"Very little, to be honest," she replied. "Most of what I know comes from the Bourne movies, and from the Valerie Plame scandal. Aside from that, I can't say that I know much."

Chuck nodded. "You and most people," he replied. "Well… what I'm about to tell you, George doesn't know. Very few people know. In fact, neither one of you will mention this again after walking out of this restaurant, because if you do, I'll personally ensure that you're black-listed by the Screen Actors' Guild."

Clooney's eyebrows threatened to crawl off his forehead, and Katharine registered shock on her face. "I trust that it will never come to that," Chuck continued. "However, that is how vitally important the secrecy of what I'm about to tell you is."

They both nodded. "The character of Tara Pierce is based on my wife," Chuck explained. "She was once one of the best deep-cover operatives in the Central Intelligence Agency, perhaps even THE best. She is, essentially, a legend in the international intelligence community."

George Clooney was shocked speechless – something that Chuck knew was rare in Hollywood. Katharine McPhee, on the other hand, looked at him curiously. "So if Tara Pierce is based on your wife… that means… that Rick McCune is based on you, which means you have a massive database of government secrets in your head."

Interestingly, she didn't appear to be shocked by that. Chuck allowed himself just the barest hint of a smile. "I like you," he said. "You're obviously not a vapid bubblehead – not if you were able to draw that conclusion that quickly."

She frowned. "Did you think I was a vapid bubblehead?"

"I don't judge people I don't know," Chuck replied. "However, despite your exceptional talent, I'm pretty certain that a large part of what got you through _American Idol_ was your looks and your, well, assets."

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "The thing is, whoever plays the character based on my wife has to be smart. My wife's a certifiable genius, and the character was played by Kristen Bell in the video game and the movie – and she's no slouch in the intelligence department either. I just had to make sure you were up to filling the shoes."

McPhee smiled deviously, and leaned forward. Chuck could see almost all of her… impressive assets. "Mr. Bartowski," she said sweetly, "I have wrapped men far more powerful than you around my pinky finger with a smile, a suggestive wink… and as is quite evident with you, a low-cut blouse will also do the trick quite nicely."

Chuck blushed bright red, but smiled. "It's a pity the intelligence community didn't get their hands on you, Ms. McPhee. I think you might've had a chance."

He leaned back. "You'll definitely do just fine."

* * *

**10:30 A.M.**

**St. John of God Catholic Church**

Max Calijo had fled the sanctuary to the narthex, ostensibly in emotional distress, but truthfully desperately needing to escape from the pandering of the monsignor. He couldn't take it – the platitudes, the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

As he stood in the narthex, he became conscious of a man coming up behind him. The man was a weasel, a leech. A former US Senator who had resigned without warning six months beforehand.

Max knew why Louis J. DeBlasio, the former Republican Senator from Utah had resigned. He, along with a group of seven others who formed the core of Fulcrum, had attempted to overthrow the President. Who had stopped them?

Why, the perpetual pain in the ass, Charles Irving Bartowski and his merry band of misfits. They had managed to uncover the plan and all its leaders. Bartowski's wife had managed to curry international support for the President, and before Fulcrum even realized what had happened, they had been shot down like so many quail.

"My condolences, Max," DeBlasio said quietly.

"Heh," Calijo grunted. "I could care less that he's dead. He was careless. He was sloppy. He allowed a civilian – an amateur – to get the jump on him, and in so doing, allowed the gang, the infrastructure he spent ten years building, to be destroyed."

"I know how he feels," DeBlasio grumbled. "An amateur took me down, too."

"Same amateur," Calijo said flippantly. DeBlasio's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"You're shitting me."

"I shit you not."

"That little bastard Bartowski was responsible for this?"

"Oh yeah," Calijo replied, turning to face DeBlasio. "You up for a little revenge?"

"Am I up for – of course I'm up for a little revenge!"

"Good," Calijo said softly. "It'll be a few months, Lou. I need to build up resources, rebuild the legend of _El Anillo del Fuego_… but when I give the word, will you be ready?"

"You bet your ass I will."

* * *

**11:30 A.M.**

**The Bartowski home**

**Studio City, California**

Chuck had collected the 911 from the valet at the Beverly Center a mere fifteen minutes earlier. He had sped up Laurel Canyon Boulevard like a madman.

He hit the button to open the garage door and gunned the 911 inside. Sarah hated it when he drove her car that way, but he couldn't resist.

Chuck swung the Porsche's door open – right into the shotgun door of his station wagon. He flinched at the scraping sound of metal on metal. Getting out, he closed the Porsche's door, then looked at the Magnum – yep, there was a nice little black scrape in the middle of the maroon door. "Crap."

He went through the door into the kitchen – and was immediately jumped on by his wife. Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his midsection, kissing him passionately.

"I could get used to that," he gasped when she came up for air. "What's the cause?"

She smiled from ear to ear as she let go and slid back to the floor. Reaching over to the counter, Sarah held up two envelopes. "This," she said.

Chuck took the envelopes. One had the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency on it, the other had the seal of the Los Angeles Police Department. He looked at Sarah, raised an eyebrow, and opened the CIA envelope. "Damn," he breathed with a whistle.

The CIA envelope contained a check, payable to Studio City Consulting Services, for five million dollars. The LAPD envelope contained a check to SCCS for three million dollars. "Wow," Chuck said quietly. "We REALLY cleaned up on this first mission, didn't we?"

"Yes, we certainly did," Sarah replied. "So, what's next?"

Chuck looked her in the eye. "What's next is that you and me and the kids take a vacation."

She cocked an eyebrow and looked at him. "REA-lly. Where to?"

Chuck smiled. "I was thinking… we just get in the Dodge and go where it takes us."

"When?"

Chuck's smile got even bigger. "Now."

* * *

**12:00 P.M.**

**Norwalk, California**

Maximillian Calijo sat at his brother's desk in his brother's house. He held Alberto's ring. It was made of platinum, and held a ruby that under the proper light, looked like it was ablaze.

"The Ring of Fire," he mused, looking at the ring. Slowly, he slipped it onto his own hand.

"I am the Ring of Fire."

* * *

**12:30 P.M.**

**Studio City, California**

The maroon Dodge Magnum backed out of the driveway as the garage door rolled shut. Two adults up front, two toddlers in the back seat, and a cargo area full of suitcases.

Casey had been left in charge of SCCS until further notice, and Nerd Cave was turned over to Morgan for the time being. Ellie would swing by the house every day to check on things, and Bryce would be sure to send Chuck e-mail updates daily.

Chuck put the Dodge in drive and headed up the street. When he reached Moorpark, he turned right, then left onto Laurel Canyon a couple blocks later. A moment later, he turned again – a right turn onto the Ventura Freeway eastbound.

As the Dodge came up to speed, a smile grew on Chuck's face. "Well, Sarah, where to?" he asked.

She looked over at him and smiled. "Take me away, Chuck. Second star to the right… and straight on till morning."

* * *

_**Author's note:** despite the fact that this chapter views the Church and its rituals in a somewhat negative light, I will say that I myself am a fairly devout Christian. However, given the views I have decided to establish for Max Calijo, I decided to look at the funeral from his point of view._


	16. All Over Again

Over the course of the next six months, life seemingly returned to normal. The Bartowski Family Vacation lasted for nearly two months and took them in a loop around the United States. By the time the maroon Dodge Magnum pulled back into the driveway of the house at 4320 Saint Clair Avenue in Studio City, it had twenty-two thousand more miles on it. John and Lisa had been to more states than either Chuck or, strangely enough, Sarah had been to up to that point.

John Casey's nearly secret relationship with radiologist Maya McCarthy had continued and grown. It had been kept such a secret that when the Bartowskis returned home and there was a rock seemingly the size of the Hope Diamond on Maya's hand, Chuck and Sarah had both nearly passed out from shock.

Then there was the discovery that Ellie was pregnant again. She found out on John and Lisa's second birthday, and announced it at their birthday party. There was, of course, great rejoicing all around – although Chuck noticed a certain sadness on Sarah's face.

"Are you doing okay?" he asked her that night.

"Yeah," she replied with a sigh. "It's just… well, as happy as I am for your sister, it makes me kind of sad to think about it, to know that I never get to experience that again."

The look on her face was heartbreaking – the look of resignation and sadness. Chuck took her in his arms and just held her for a while. She didn't cry, didn't break down – just stood there, feeling safe and protected in his embrace.

On Christmas Eve, they decided to take John and Lisa to midnight mass at Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral. Father Mike O'Halloran was the officiant, and both the kids recognized that at once. "Is that Papa Mike?" John asked Sarah when the Jesuit priest ascended the chancel.

"Yes, it is," she replied in a hushed tone.

"He looks silly!" Lisa giggled, taking in his vestments with no small amusement.

"Shhh!" Sarah shushed her daughter, although she was unable to suppress a small giggle herself.

By the time the service ended, it was after 1:00 AM. Both of the Bartowskis found themselves carrying a two year old, but Sarah wanted to speak with Father Mike briefly.

She and Chuck walked up to him, toting their toddlers. "Merry Christmas, Agent Walker," he said softly as they approached.

"Merry Christmas, Father Mike," she replied. "Lisa thought you looked silly in your vestments."

"Aye, and a wise lass she is," Michael O'Halloran replied. "Or perhaps it's a wiseass… who can tell the difference?"

Sarah and Chuck both laughed softly. "I wanted to ask you something," Sarah said. "What would you think… what if Chuck and I were to adopt a child?"

Chuck had not been expecting her to ask that question, but there was no disguising the look of joy that crossed his face when she said that. He looked briefly at her, then expectantly over at Father Mike.

The veteran CIA agent looked from Sarah to Chuck and back again. His face turned serious, and his Irish accent practically disappeared, as it often did in serious situations. "Ordinarily, as your Agency handler, I'd recommend against it," he told them. "It could expose you and the child you adopt to untoward danger."

He paused, and then smiled. "However, I think that doing such a deed would more than make up for a litany of sins the two of you have committed, and I think it would do you and your family a world of good."

His smile got even bigger, and his accent returned. "As such, if it's somethin' the two of ye wish t' do, ye'll definitely have me blessin' as a priest and as yer friend, and I'll keep me mouth shut as a CIA agent."

Three weeks later, the pilot episode of _Mindnode_ aired on NBC. Chuck and Sarah had a "premiere party" for it at their house – although the guest list was limited to the Woodcombs, Casey, and Morgan.

Morgan was less than amused that the studio had gotten Efren Ramirez to play the character based on him. "They got Pedro to play me?" he complained.

Everybody else was mostly satisfied. Sarah was actually fairly impressed with the job Katharine McPhee did handling the Tara Pierce character, and Casey was quite pleased with the job Sean Maher did as Robert Johnson. Ellie and Devin were rather amused with being portrayed by Jewel Staite and Jason Dohring.

Chuck was loath to admit that Anton Yelchin actually did a better job playing his character than Chuck felt he did in real life – although he felt he REALLY overplayed the scene where he received the Rorschach System (read that, the Intersect) from Kelvin Cardinal. There was a round of moaning at that particular character's name. "They just HAD to go with another bird name, didn't they?" Casey grumbled.

The show actually did very well, winning its timeslot on the first night it aired. NBC was pleased with the results, and it continued to do well and inspire a rather sizable fan database.

A couple of weeks later, though, the first "fanfic" began to pop up. Chuck had been on a fan fiction website, submitting some of his own from _Firefly_ – "Yes, I write fanfic for _Firefly_. Get over it," he had told Casey – when he noticed that there was a category for _Mindnode_ on the page.

Curious, he had clicked on the link. There were only a few stories on the page. The first one written was called "All the Way Down". Intrigued, he'd opened the story –

"Oh my God," he gasped. This wasn't just fanfic, this was smut. It had seemed like normal fanfic for the first few pages, but then, on the last page, Tara Pierce had been working on some martial arts moves with Rick McCune, had ended up knocking him on his ass, and then –

"What's with the look on your face?" Sarah asked, coming through the door. Chuck didn't say anything, just pointed at the computer monitor, wide-eyed. Sarah looked at the story, read through it –

"Wow," she said with a whistle, her eyebrows raised. "I don't think I've ever tried that with you before."

Surprised, he looked up at her, and she looked down at him. "You want to?" she asked with a smile.

* * *

Meanwhile, Maximillian Calijo had been slowly but carefully rebuilding the legend of _El Anillo del Fuego_. However, this time around, the Ring of Fire wouldn't have some amateur street gang behind him, but rather, the full force of the organization known as Fulcrum.

Of the original eight core members, General Louisa Beckman was dead, and six others refused to have anything to do with Fulcrum. Their justification was that with the President's re-election, if they were EVER to resurface as part of Fulcrum, he would have them rubbed out so quickly they wouldn't know what had happened.

And so it fell to Lou DeBlasio and Max Calijo to rebuild and reactivate Fulcrum. Of the roster of more than five hundred, only a little more than one hundred members of the organization were willing to rejoin the good fight. But they were one hundred who had been trained in the US military and its intelligence organizations. They would more than suffice.

Max Calijo had decided not to take the stupid path of attacking Chuck Bartowski. He would not go anywhere near Bartowski's children, like his brother had. He would attack him peripherally – his business interests and his friends would be chipped away at slowly until Bartowski was essentially naked.

But Calijo had a little bit of an ego problem, just like his brother. He wasn't content to just sit back and let things happen. He had to let Bartowski know just how screwed he was. And that's why, on March 1st, he dispatched a team of Fulcrum agents to Studio City, and told them to communicate with Bartowski the way the Firestone Boulevard Slayers would have.

* * *

**7:00 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Friday, March 1st, 2013**

**Studio City, California**

Chuck Bartowski was up early, as usual. It was his task to wake up every day and get the coffee going while Sarah made sure that the kids were ready for day care.

But the smell of coffee almost invariably brought Sarah wandering into the kitchen before she woke up the twins. "Mmmm," she said approvingly, smelling the coffee as she wandered into the kitchen.

"Good morning to you, too," Chuck replied amusedly. His very sleepy wife embraced him and laid her head against his chest, closing her eyes.

"Don't move," she muttered. "Going back to sleep here."

"I'm pretty sure that's not an option," Chuck said, laughing softly. "The kids have to be woken up and gotten ready for the day, and I have to go to work."

"Spoilsport," Sarah grumbled, squeezing him tight before releasing him. "Get me something to wake me up then."

"Yes, señora, allow me to be Juan Valdez," Chuck replied in a ridiculous accent. Pulling the pot off the coffeemaker, he poured a mug for Sarah.

She accepted it, and took a sip. "It's good," she approved. "It's been good ever since Will told you how to make Marine Corps coffee. What's the difference, anyway?"

"I was sworn to secrecy," Chuck replied, mock-zipping his mouth shut. What Major Will Williamson of the United States Marine Corps had taught him was very simple, but Chuck had sworn he would never share it with anyone.

"Punk," Sarah complained. "And I can't weasel it out of him, either."

"Kinda hard for a woman to seduce a gay Marine," Chuck laughed. Will Williamson had finally been able to stop living in the closet three months before when the President had convinced Congress to put a stop to "don't ask, don't tell."

"I can still seduce you, though," Sarah said with a smile. She ran her fingers through Chuck's hair, and gently traced her fingernails down behind the backs of his ears. His eyes involuntarily closed and he shuddered as she did that. His mouth dropped open just a little bit, and she seized on the opportunity.

Sarah kissed Chuck, ever-so-slyly snaking her tongue into his mouth and making him shudder again. She withdrew, and gently bit his bottom lip.

"Oooookay," he gasped. "You add a pinch of salt and a half teaspoon of brown sugar to the grounds."

"See," Sarah said with a smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Chuck was just about ready to say "to hell with the morning schedule" and let Sarah finish the whole seduction bit right then and there, but they were interrupted by a dull _thud_ that came from the direction of the living room window.

"What the hell?" Chuck asked, heading toward the front of the house. He opened the front door. A brick sat on the front porch, a note tied around it. Clearly, it had been meant to go through the front window, but CIA Director Sam Tyler had insisted on having bulletproof glass installed over a year prior.

But that wasn't Chuck's immediate concern. "Holy shit," Sarah said, as she stepped out the front door and saw the large burning circle on their front lawn.

Chuck grabbed the garden hose, turned on the spigot, and was quickly able to extinguish the flames on the grass that John Casey had worked so hard to make perfect. "Casey's gonna be pissed," Chuck groaned.

"I don't think that's our biggest problem," Sarah replied. She held out the note that had been tied around the brick.

Chuck took the note and read it. _You're a dead man, Bartowski_, it read. It was signed, _El_ _Anillo del Fuego_.

"Okay," Chuck said, taking a deep breath. "This is definitely gonna be a problem."

"You think?" Sarah asked. "_En Anillo del Fuego_ is dead! I saw the pictures from his funeral in the L.A. Times!"

"I don't think we're dealing with Alberto Calijo," Chuck replied slowly. "I think we're dealing with the Ring of Fire, California State Assemblyman from District 56."

Sarah's eyes went wide, and then she shook her head. "No WAY," she replied. "You think that Max Calijo is taking his brother's place at the head of the Slayers?"

"No," Chuck replied. "I think he's taking his brother's place as _El Anillo del Fuego_. However, I think the organization behind him is far more powerful than the Firestone Boulevard Slayers could have ever HOPED to have been."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "You can't be serious."

"Of course I'm serious," Chuck said. "He had the contacts, the know-how. His brother worked with them."

"So you seriously believe that Max Calijo is reactivating Fulcrum?" Sarah asked.

"I do," Chuck replied worriedly. "And I really don't know how we're going to be able to stop him."


	17. Don't Take Your Guns to Town

**10:00 A.M., Pacific Standard Time**

**March 1****st****, 2013**

**Studio City Consulting Services**

"We're in serious shit," Chuck told the team. "I believe that Max Calijo has taken on the title of the Ring of Fire, and I think his backing organization is Fulcrum."

"Shit," John Casey breathed.

"According to Bryce's intelligence, he's got the backing of probably one hundred members of Fulcrum who are still loyal. Of the original core, as we all know, General Beckman is dead. Six others have refused to go anywhere near Calijo, which leaves Lou DeBlasio."

Chuck paused for a moment. "DeBlasio was seen coming out of St. John of God Catholic Church in Norwalk six months ago after Alberto Calijo's funeral."

"Shit," Casey said again.

"I don't feel safe about using any of our vehicles to get out of here," Chuck told them. "I'm pretty sure that they're all compromised. So, Will and Mitch have gone to Bob Hope Airport using the Burbank bus system. They're going to pick up the Black Hawk, fly back here, pick us up, and then fly us back to the airport. We'll get onboard Casey's Learjet and get the hell out of Dodge."

Ellie looked shocked. "We're just gonna leave Los Angeles?" she asked in disbelief.

"If the alternative is getting dead, then yes," Chuck replied.

"Shit."

"Thank you, Casey."

"Hey, I'm leaving Maya behind, buddy. She doesn't have a CLUE that I'm not going to be back tonight. So I'll say 'shit' all I damn well please."

Chuck held his hands up. "Fair enough."

"Yeah," Morgan chimed in. "You get to take Sarah with you, but I have to leave Anna behind. Does that seem fair to you?"

"Morgan, Fulcrum wouldn't know who the hell you were!" Chuck exclaimed. "Anna's not in any danger!"

"She better not be."

Chuck shook his head – and his cell phone rang. "Yeah?" he answered it.

"Chuck, it's Will," he heard. "We just got clearance to take off. We should be there in ten."

"Fantastic," Chuck replied. "Call me again when you hit the 101."

"Roger."

And the phone disconnected. "Here's the plan," Chuck said. "We fly to Bob Hope Airport, like I said. From there, we take the Lear to San Felipe. In San Felipe, Casey has a contact who will deliver a van to us, and from there, we go to his safe house in Ensenada. It's circuitous, yes, but it'll help throw people off."

Devin shook his head. "How'd this happen, man? I thought this was all settled a year ago – we threw off Fulcrum, you all saved the country, so on and so forth."

Chuck sighed and hung his head. "It's my fault," he replied quietly. "I decided to form the company at the request of Director Tyler and Senator Graham, and then we decided to take on the Slayers."

"Wait a second, no!" Casey rebuked him. "This is NOT your fault! You decided to take on a noble goal, to be a force for good in the United States. You couldn't have possibly expected that a domestic terror group would target you!"

"He's right, Chuck," Sarah said quietly. "This isn't your fault."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys," Chuck replied. But his face spoke volumes as he headed out into the office area.

He sat down heavily in a chair – not even checking which desk he was at. He just sat there for the next five minutes.

Then his phone rang. "Crossing the 101, Chuck!" Will Williamson called into the phone. "We'll be there any minute!"

The call spurred Chuck to action. "Alright, everybody!" he shouted into the conference room. "Let's get up to the roof!"

He headed for the stairwell. He was followed by Bryce, Carina, Rachel, Morgan, Casey, Ellie, Devin, and Sarah, each of the last three carrying a two year old.

When they hit the roof, Chuck looked east – and there it was, the Black Hawk helicopter coming down Ventura Boulevard, toward the SCCS building. It began to slow in preparation for landing on the roof of the building –

And that's when a streak of smoke shot out from behind the Washington Mutual bank on the corner of Laurel Canyon and Ventura. The Stinger missile impacted directly on the Black Hawk's exhaust, exploding and tearing the engine apart.

The helicopter's transmission instantly froze, bringing the rotor to a screeching halt. However, the blades of the rotor didn't stop so easily, and tore themselves off of the helicopter.

"GET DOWN!" Chuck roared as shrapnel flew. The entire group threw themselves to the rooftop behind the ledge. Chuck could hear a piece of rotor whistle overhead.

The fuselage of the helicopter plummeted like a stone, dropping into the middle of Ventura Boulevard just west of Laurel Canyon. There was a massive explosion.

Chuck poked his head up over the edge of the building. "Oh my God," he whispered. "Will… Mitch…"

Casey had poked his head up over the edge as well. "They're gone, Bartowski," he said gruffly. "We've got to get out of here, right now."

"Agreed," Sarah said. "Come on! Move!"

Following her lead, everybody dashed back into the stairwell. Sarah didn't stop till she hit the garage. "Casey, you take the Suburban – Chuck, Morgan, me, and the kids are with you. Bryce, take the Land Cruiser – you've got Carina, Ellie, Devin, and Rachel!"

There was no arguing. Everybody went to their assigned vehicle, Ellie handing Katie off to Chuck and tearfully begging him to keep her safe. "I will die long before she does," Chuck swore to his sister.

Chuck rode shotgun in the Suburban. Ever the nerd, he knew almost exactly the layout of the back streets in the Hollywood Hills, and was going to be Casey's navigator. "Turn right out onto Vantage," he ordered Casey. "Stay on Vantage till you reach Laurel Terrace, and then left!"

When the garage door opened, there was a black sedan blocking the driveway. "Oh, hell no," Casey growled, punching the gas.

The Suburban hit the Fulcrum-owned Honda at twenty-seven miles an hour, shoving it out into the street. Casey took a right, with Bryce right behind him.

He followed Chuck's directions down to Laurel Terrace. As they came around a bend, though, Casey saw a red light at Laurel Canyon Boulevard. "What now?!"

"Lights and sirens!" Chuck shouted. "Lay on the horn, but whatever you do, don't stop!"

Casey followed Chuck's instructions exactly. As they blasted through the intersection at Laurel Canyon, they could see black sedans on either side of the intersection. Then there was another sound.

"Oh, fuck!" Casey growled. "Fulcrum's got their own helicopter!"

* * *

Maximillian Calijo was onboard the retired Phoenix Police McDonnell Douglas MDX helicopter that hovered over Sunshine Terrace east of Laurel Canyon Boulevard. "Ah, my little insects, there will be no escaping me!" he said with a grin.

He turned to the man beside him. "Fire!"

* * *

A golden beam of light punched into the street in front of the Suburban, creating a hole. "What the HELL was that?!" Chuck shouted in terror.

"Directed energy weapon," Casey replied through gritted teeth, steering around the hole. "They've been in the US Army inventory for five years now."

"Wait, wait!" Chuck yelled. "You mean Fulcrum's fuckin' got PHASERS?!"

* * *

"Please, do me a favor, try to actually hit the vehicle," Calijo said, no small amount of displeasure in his voice. "I want to see them dead, not play with them."

"Yes sir," the US Army Ranger seated beside him said. He lined up the weapon again.

* * *

Casey actually saw the weapon line up a split second before it fired. He slammed on the Suburban's brakes, with Bryce fishtailing to a stop behind him, and the DEW put a hole through the Suburban's bumper.

"I have had quite enough of this," Casey growled. "Walker, there's a fifty caliber rifle underneath your husband's seat. You want to take care of this?"

"With pleasure," she replied, anger in her voice.

* * *

"Better, but I would prefer it if you hit, say, the engine compartment, or the passenger compartment," Max Calijo growled.

"Not a problem, sir."

"Obviously, it is!"

* * *

Sunshine Terrace had turned into Fruitland Drive. Casey had just flown across Vineland Avenue, causing a three car accident as he went, Bryce just barely avoiding the Land Cruiser being the fourth car. Sarah had her shot lined up on the helicopter –

"Shit! Turn left!" Chuck shouted.

There went her shot. Sarah kept a tight grip on the rifle as the Suburban swung left onto Riverton Drive. "Oh, hell," Casey groaned. "That's Ventura Boulevard!"

* * *

"FOLLOW THEM!" Calijo shouted. Then he realized. "Wait, we can be patient," he said with a smile. "They'll have no chance of getting across Ventura Boulevard."

* * *

Casey breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and slammed his foot to the floor. The Suburban shot across Ventura Boulevard.

"He's out of his goddamn mind!" Bryce said in astonishment. And yet, he did the same thing. The Land Cruiser followed the Suburban across Ventura onto Campo de Cahuenga Way, the rear bumper coming inches from the front end of a speeding Rapid 750 bus.

"Now what?" Casey asked Chuck as the Suburban approached Lankershim Boulevard.

"Into Universal Studios!" Chuck shouted.

"WHAT?!"

"JUST DO IT!"

* * *

Calijo couldn't believe the cojones on the drivers of the two vehicles below. "They're both driven by madmen," he said, with a small amount of admiration in his voice as they approached Lankershim Boulevard.

He watched as the Suburban and the Land Cruiser shot across into Universal Studios. He was so fixated on the driving that he didn't notice the barrel sticking out of the Suburban's right rear window until –

POP

"Oh, shit!" yelled the pilot. "They just put a round through the oil compressor!"

"What?!" Calijo shouted back in anger. "WHAT?!"

"Helicopter's done, man," the pilot replied, jerking the bird around to attempt a landing at the Universal City park and ride lot. "You're on your own."

"FUCK!"

* * *

"Good shooting, Walker," Casey grunted as he watched the helicopter in his rearview mirror. Trailing black smoke, it came in for a hard landing in the middle of the Universal City bus terminal.

"Take a right at Hotel Drive," Chuck ordered Casey. A moment later, Casey complied. "Now take a left on Buddy Holly."

Casey looked at Chuck strangely. "Our helicopter got shot down, we just shot down another, and you're having me go down a street named for Buddy Holly? Do you not believe in bad luck?"

Chuck laughed – and then started singing. "Bye, bye, Miss American Pie... drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry…"

"You're nuts!"

* * *

Max Calijo jumped out of the smoking helicopter, the three Fulcrum men right behind him. He ran up to a Rapid bus that was idling by the curb.

He ran through the open door and up the steps. "Hey, buddy, bus doesn't leave for –"

Calijo put a bullet through the head of the bus driver. "Get rid of him," he ordered the helicopter pilot.

* * *

Now Casey and Chuck were both singing. "THE GOOD OLD BOYS WERE DRINKIN' WHISKEY AND RYE, SINGIN' THIS'LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE!"

"It really is going to be if you don't both SHUT UP!" Sarah growled from the back seat.

"Sorry," Chuck said meekly.

Sarah growled something unintelligible, then turned around to check on the kids. She looked out the back window and saw something behind Bryce's Land Cruiser.

"Oh my God…"

* * *

"Hello, bitches!" Max Calijo cackled. The North American Bus Industries Model 42-BRT really had quite a lot of power. He was gaining on the two black SUVs rapidly.

Suddenly, though, they both increased speed. "Oh, I guess they must know that I'm here," he said, pretending to pout.

* * *

"We're being chased by a BUS?!" Casey exclaimed.

"Oh my God, and we're going the wrong way," Chuck added, his stomach leaping up his throat.

Sure enough, the instant they had crossed over Universal Studios Boulevard, Buddy Holly Drive became one way northwest – and they were headed southeast. "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" Casey bellowed as the Suburban, still running with lights and sirens, plunged into oncoming traffic.

* * *

"Oh, foolish move," Calijo said. It had been much easier for drivers to get out of the way of John Casey and Bryce Larkin than it was for them to get out of the way of Calijo and his bus. He laughed with glee as he bulldozed cars straight off the road.

"I need to get me one of THESE!" he shouted maniacally.

* * *

"Turn left at Barham!" Chuck shouted.

"Thank God," Casey breathed, as they came off the one-way street and onto the six wide lanes of Barham Boulevard. The Land Cruiser followed – and so did the LACMTA Rapid bus, wreaking havoc as it went.

"That's gonna be a mighty big cleanup bill," Morgan observed. It was the first time he'd spoken since they left the SCCS building.

"We'll charge it to the federal government," Casey replied. "Without them, Fulcrum wouldn't exist in the first place."

"Oh, Senator Graham's gonna LOVE that," Chuck grumbled.

* * *

"Enough of this bullshit," Carina growled in Bryce's Land Cruiser. Crawling out of her seat, she crawled between the Woodcombs in the back seat, pausing just long enough to "accidentally" run an admiring hand over Devin's pecs, and over the seat into the cargo area.

She lifted up a cover mat – and there, indeed, was a TOW anti-tank missile, all ready for use, in the back end. Carina smiled grimly and turned on the power.

As the TOW warmed up, she removed her gun from its holster. Holding the weapon by the barrel, she shielded her eyes with her left hand and struck the back window with the butt of the gun. It shattered and fell outward.

Picking up the TOW launch missile, she aimed it at the Rapid bus following them. She smiled again.

"_Arrivederci,_ bitch," she muttered as she got a lock on tone. She pressed the launch button.

* * *

Max Calijo's eyes widened when he saw the missile launch. He stood on the bus's brakes.

It wasn't designed to go from sixty to zero in a rapid amount of time. The back end fishtailed, swinging out across traffic as the bus decelerated. Calijo flung open the door and dove out – just as the TOW missile hit the bus dead center.

The explosion flung him through the windshield of a Ford Windstar that had stopped when the bus swung out. "Jesus, man, are you okay?" the driver asked in concern, ignoring the fact that he now had half a windshield.

Calijo shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and then drew his gun. "Get out."

"What?!" the driver said in alarm.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

* * *

"YEAH!" Chuck shouted as he watched the missile blow a hole in the bus.

Casey kept the pedal down, though. They needed to get to Bob Hope Airport, and rapidly. It was only a couple more miles.

* * *

Calijo backed the Windstar up, smashing a Toyota Yaris in the process. He whipped the Windstar around the end of the now blazing bus, pushing his speed up to seventy-five.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. "This is Trash Hauler One," he heard.

"All steps have been negative," Calijo growled. "Take them down!"

* * *

A cheer went up in the Suburban when they reached Thornton Avenue. Casey even allowed himself a little smile as he took the next left hand turn onto the grounds of Bob Hope Airport.

The Suburban pulled up to the hangar where the two jets and the two Hummers were kept, the Land Cruiser pulling up next to it. The adults quickly jumped out, with Chuck and Sarah retrieving John and Lisa and Ellie getting Katie.

Casey hit the remote control button to open the doors of the hangar, when he heard something.

"What the hell is that noise?" It sounded familiar, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

Commander Rachel Harrison was absolutely sure of what it was, though. "RUN!" she screamed. "GET AWAY FROM THE HANGAR!"

* * *

Lieutenant Roger Mantle was flying the F/A-18 Hornet known as Trash Hauler One. He had departed MCAS Yuma an hour beforehand. One of the few to remain loyal to Fulcrum, he had been told that he was to orbit Los Angeles and await orders.

Not that he'd had much choice in remaining loyal. He had been contacted by Lou DeBlasio a few months earlier and informed that if he didn't do exactly what he was told, the entire world would be told that he was the one who had put an AGM-84E SLAM into the Arland D. Williams Memorial Bridge in Washington, DC, the previous February. The explosion had resulted in the deaths of 150 people.

But there was the hangar. Two black SUVs parked outside, just as he'd been told. And as the people standing outside heard the noise of his jet, they started running.

* * *

John Casey looked back over his shoulder as the F/A-18 dove toward Bob Hope Airport. The M61 Vulcan gun under the nose opened up. Bullets bit into the hangar, the tarmac, the SUVs.

The Hornet swooped back up into the sky, and a moment later, the Suburban and the Land Cruiser exploded. Those were followed by a pair of much larger explosions as the Falcon and the Learjet parked inside the hangar went up.

"We're screwed," Casey muttered. But he pressed on.

A moment later, the group reached an open gate door at the terminal. The passengers who were supposed to be going inside from Southwest Airlines flight 1746 all instead stood, astonished, as they watched the SCCS hangar burn on the edge of the airport.

Chuck, Sarah, Casey, Bryce, Carina, Rachel, Morgan, Ellie, and Devin ran inside the airport, the three kids in Chuck, Sarah, and Ellie's arms. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief and slowed to a walk.

"My God," Casey muttered. "We might make it after all."

Bryce was leading the group when they reached the exit doors from the terminal. They opened automatically, and he strode out – and almost immediately went down.

The sound of the gunshot echoed across the terminal. Bryce collapsed, his hands grasping his stomach.

And Assemblyman Maximillian Calijo walked into the terminal, his gun raised and leveled at Chuck's forehead.

"Hello, Mr. Bartowski," he growled. "Are you ready to die?"

Chuck's eyes had gone wide, and he was trembling. "N-no, not really!" he replied. "I mean, can't you see I've got my son here?!"

Calijo shrugged. "And this should matter to me why?"

"Because you're a human being and so am I!"

Max Calijo narrowed his eyes. "It's too bad you forgot that when you wiped out the Firestone Boulevard Slayers," he replied. "It's too bad you forgot that when you blew up a house in Redlands."

Then he smiled. "But you know, you gave me the justification I needed to kill my incompetent failure of a brother. You gave me a good reason to become _El Anillo del Fuego_. You gave me good reason to reactivate Fulcrum. They all hate you, by the way. They hate you for destroying their master plan and leaving the President in office.

"But that's not why you have to die, Mr. Bartowski," Calijo said. "You have to die because you're a PAIN IN THE ASS. Whether by amazing skill or dumb luck, you have managed to thwart every plan that Fulcrum has had in the last FIVE YEARS! And as Fulcrum's leader, I say ENOUGH! You will DIE, and we will be UNSTOPPABLE!"

Chuck raised his eyebrows – and then he started to laugh. Calijo looked at him in disbelief. "What the fuck could possibly be so funny?!"

Chuck smiled. "Oh, Max. You think you're all big and bad. But you know what? You forgot the number six rule for being an Evil Overlord."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"No monologuing," came a voice from behind him. Max Calijo whirled around, to see Bryce Larkin standing, a gun pointed directly at his forehead.

That was the last thing that Max Calijo saw, as Bryce pulled the trigger. The bullet discharged directly into Calijo's forehead.

His corpse fell to the floor of the Bob Hope International Airport terminal. "He made a crappy evil overlord," Bryce grumbled.

Chuck set John down on the floor and crossed to Calijo. He felt for a pulse – none. That's when Calijo's phone started to ring.

He pulled the phone from Calijo's pocket. The display told him that Lou DeBlasio was calling.

Chuck grinned and pressed the talk button. "Senator DeBlasio, this is Chuck Bartowski," he said. "Max Calijo is dead. I would seriously suggest that Fulcrum go back to being dead and stay there. If you don't, my people will hunt you all down, and you will be very sorry you EVER crossed me."

There was no noise on the other end for a moment. Finally, DeBlasio spoke. "That's fair," he replied slowly. "We'll shut everything down. But there's something you should know, Mr. Bartowski."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Max Calijo's wife died three months ago in childbirth. You just orphaned a three month old baby girl."


	18. Happy to Be With You

Lou DeBlasio was true to his word. Fulcrum shut down immediately.

Unfortunately for him, there was just too much to cover up this time. The helicopter crash on Ventura Boulevard, the mayhem in the Hollywood Hills, the bus explosion on Hollywood Way, the strafing of the hangar at Bob Hope Airport, and the shooting death of a state Assemblyman in the airport terminal – it was just all too big to cover up.

Reluctantly, Sam Tyler allowed the facts about Fulcrum to become public. An outraged America responded angrily – the people pretty much demanded the heads of everybody involved.

The President went on national television and explained Fulcrum, from its beginning to its end. He explained the plot the previous February wherein Fulcrum had tried to remove him from office. He explained his justification in not prosecuting the leaders of Fulcrum – and he explained why he was offering every remaining member of Fulcrum a full pardon, provided they all resigned their governmental posts immediately.

The President said that it was clear that Fulcrum acted as they did because they were trying to preserve, protect, and defend the Union. He said that he couldn't fault them for that, even if they were rather misguided.

Amazingly, the President's approval rating hit an all-time high the following week.

With Max Calijo dead, there was no longer anybody with any power to protect his family's name. As a result, the Los Angeles Times did a deep investigative story on both him and Alberto Calijo. They and the Firestone Boulevard Slayers were excoriated for all their crimes and misdeeds.

Chuck Bartowski decided that he could no longer be involved with the operations of Studio City Consulting Services – it just rubbed him the wrong way, morally. The deaths of Will Williamson and Mitch Tucker had hit him especially hard.

Chuck would remain the president of the company, but his day-to-day role would be limited to technical support. He would return to being the head of Nerd Cave Video Games for his primary job.

Sarah Bartowski remained the Chief Operating Officer of Studio City Consulting Services, while John Casey became the Chief Executive Officer. His first decision was to temporarily suspend all SCCS operations, while funds were gathered to replace the equipment and manpower lost when they were attacked by Max Calijo and by Fulcrum.

Bryce Larkin recovered from being shot fairly quickly – although he did lose a portion of his stomach and his small intestine, meaning that he could no longer eat large meals, but had to eat several small ones a day. "I can't even eat a steak in one sitting anymore," he griped one day.

Reese Mitchell Woodcomb was born on June 14th, 2013 – Sarah's thirty-first birthday. She was quite pleased when Devin and Ellie asked her to be their newborn son's godmother.

John Casey and Maya McCarthy were married in a small civil ceremony at the L.A. County Courthouse on July 4th, 2013. Casey had insisted on getting married on the fourth of July. He claimed that it was because he wanted to celebrate his marriage and America's birth at the same time.

Of course, everybody learned a little better when Maya started showing a bump not three weeks later. When the story came out that Maya's father had actually pointed a shotgun at John Casey on learning the news that his daughter was pregnant, there was no small amount of amusement among the Bartowskis and the Woodcombs.

"Who would've ever thought that John Casey would end up in a shotgun wedding?" Chuck asked.

On August 1st, the Bartowski home in Studio City was approved by Child Protective Services as being certifiable as a foster care facility. On that day, they were able to take custody of almost eight-month-old Alejandra Maria Calijo. She had been with a foster family in San Diego since Max Calijo had died in March.

After being told by Lou DeBlasio that Max had been raising Alejandra by himself, Chuck had almost immediately been sent on a massive guilt trip. He had spent the next two hours explaining to Sarah why they should try to adopt her.

At the end of his rant, she asked, "Are you done?"

"Well, I guess so," he replied, perplexed.

"Good," she said. "All you had to do was say, 'We should adopt her,' and I would've said yes."

And so Alejandra had arrived to stay with the Bartowskis on the evening of Augsut 1st. That first night, Sarah had stayed up almost all night with her, holding her, talking to her, singing to her. Chuck poked his head out in the living room around 3:00 AM. The look of happiness on Sarah's face was something he hadn't seen since the twins had been born.

The television series of _Mindnode_ had continued to be a huge success. After the initial thirteen episodes in the spring of 2013, NBC had picked it up for a full twenty-two episode season the following year.

Chuck continued to be amused by the amount of fanfic written about the show – although he was less amused when slash fanfic with Rick McCune and Robert Johnson started appearing. When Casey found out about, he was even less amused.

"This is not right," he growled. "Me and YOU, Bartowski? What is wrong with these people?"

"They're not talking about the two of you," Sarah interjected, looking up from feeding Alejandra. "They're talking about fictional characters. FIC-TION-AL CHAR-AC-TERS."

Casey had left the house rolling his eyes and grumbling something about "see how you like it." Two days later, slash fic involving Tara Pierce and Mary McCune (the character based on Ellie) had appeared on the Internet, curiously authored by an individual whose handle was "Ron Macy".

Sarah threatened to put Casey in concrete boots at the bottom of Long Beach Harbor.

* * *

**8:30 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**Wednesday, October 23****rd****, 2013**

**State of California Children's Court**

**Los Angeles, California**

"ALL RISE!" the bailiff boomed. "State of California Children's Court now in session, the Honorable Kristin Hacopian presiding!"

Judge Hacopian stepped up behind the bench. "Please be seated," she said, taking a seat. The occupants of the courtroom sat.

"I understand that this morning, we're here to discuss the matter of the adoption of Alejandra Maria Calijo by Charles Irving and Sarah Lisa Bartowski. Is that correct?"

Kelly Mathison, the case worker who had been handling Alejandra's case rose. "Yes, your Honor, that is correct."

"Very well. I wish to ask the potential parents several questions. Would that be permissible?"

Mathison seemed surprised, but said, "That is permissible to Child Protective Services, as long as Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski are okay with it."

Chuck hadn't expected this. He turned to Sarah, who nodded. "We'll do it, your Honor," he said nervously.

"Very well," Judge Hacopian said. "Mr. Bartowski, I wish to ask you several questions first."

"Go ahead," Chuck replied.

"First of all, can you please describe what you do for a living?"

Chuck smiled. "Mostly, I sit at my computer all day long, your Honor. I'm a video game programmer, and I've been very successful at it. Lately, I've taken to working from home, mostly so that I can spend time with our children and they don't have to be in day care."

Hacopian raised an eyebrow. "So, you would describe yourself as a stay-at-home father?"

Chuck considered it for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you could say that, your Honor."

She nodded. "Alright. Now, I understand that there are a number of weapons present in your household. Is this correct?"

Chuck nodded uneasily. "Uh, yes, ma'am, it is… however, they are all registered in the name of my wife, who has been publicly acknowledged to have been an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. She and I have both been extensively trained in firearm use, and they are kept in a triple-locked gun safe."

Judge Hacopian looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Mr. Bartowski, is it true that last year you shot and killed an intruder in your home?"

Chuck's eyes had gone wide. "Yes, ma'am, that's correct, but –"

"Mr. Bartowski, how can you –"

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I need to finish my statement."

Kristin Hacopian was very evidently not used to being interrupted in her courtroom. "Mr. Bartowski, I would watch myself if I were you. You are coming very close to contempt."

Chuck could feel his ire rising. "Your Honor, you asked me a question. I would greatly appreciate it if you would let me answer it completely before interrupting me."

Judge Hacopian stared at him for a moment, and then made a hand motion indicating that Chuck should continue. "Thank you, your Honor. I shot and killed Louisa Beckman because she had shot my wife and had indicated that she intended to abduct one if not both of our children."

Hacopian looked at Chuck, then down at the file on her desk. "There's no indication of Ms. Beckman stating that in the file."

Chuck looked at the ceiling for a moment, and then said, "That's because Ms. Beckman was General Beckman, former head of the National Security Agency, and the fact that she said that to my wife is part of a top secret investigation being conducted by the Central Intelligence Agency. You may not repeat that outside of this courtroom, or you will be subject to federal charges."

That pissed Judge Hacopian off. "Mr. Bartowski!" she snapped. "How dare you tell –"

"Excuse me, ma'am, he's correct," a voice with a Mancunian accent said behind Chuck. "My name is Samuel Tyler, director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mr. Bartowski is telling the truth about General Beckman's intentions, and as he said, if you repeat that outside this courtroom, you will be subject to federal charges."

Hacopian's face quickly went from red to white as she realized the enormity of what she was facing. "Uh… very well," she said quietly. "I have just one question remaining for Mr. Bartowski, then. How do you justify becoming the adoptive father of Alejandra Calijo when it was your friend Bryce Larkin who killed Maximillian Calijo in cold blood?"

Chuck cocked an eyebrow and gave Hacopian a rather nasty look. "Your Honor, aside from the fact that I resent your implication that Bryce is a murderer, he killed Calijo after being shot by him, and because Calijo was about to kill me. I would have done the same thing had our positions been reversed. As far as adopting Alejandra, I wish to do that for two reasons – number one, I feel a sense of obligation, and number two – my wife and I want to have another child, which was made impossible through natural means when she was shot by General Beckman last year."

Chuck stopped abruptly, as he realized that his voice had been rising throughout the entire statement, and that he had accentuated the last several words by jabbing a finger at Judge Hacopian. He took a deep breath and lowered his arm to his side.

"Thank you, Mr. Bartowski," she said. "You may be seated, and I will present my judgment."

Sarah stood up. "Wait a second!" she protested. "I thought you had some questions for me as well!"

"I have changed my mind, Mrs. Bartowski," Hacopian said frostily. "Be SEATED."

Sarah sat. "This is my judgment," Hacopian began. "I do not believe that Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski are fit to be the parents of Alejandra Maria Calijo. Therefore, I do not award custody or adoption rights to them, and I hereby request that Child Protective Services finds a new foster home for her as soon as possible."

A collective gasp of disbelief rose throughout the courtroom – all save for one individual. He was seated in the back, wearing a leather bomber jacket and a ballcap that said "USS_ Oriskany_ CVA-34". He stood and said, "I'm gonna have to go ahead and say you're wrong there, your Honor."

Kristin Hacopian looked at the man in disbelief. "I beg your pardon? Who the hell are you?!"

And at that, the man whipped off the ballcap and looked her straight in the eye. "I said, you're WRONG, Judge Hacopian," said the President of the United States.

Judge Hacopian's eyes went wide as she realized who she was dealing with. "Sir… uh, Mr. President, I'm sorry, but, uh, that's my judgment."

"Change it."

"Excuse me?"

"Call it abuse of power, call it whatever you want, but I'm telling you to change it," the President growled. "The Bartowskis have done more for this country in the last five years than you'll do in your entire life. The classified things they have done are beyond the wildest dreams of Hollywood."

He paused, sizing Hacopian up. "Now you listen to me. This country owes the Bartowski family a huge debt. You have a choice here – either you can change your judgment to grant custody of Alejandra Calijo to Chuck and Sarah Bartowski, or I can issue an executive order. If I do that, you're gonna look REALLY bad."

Hacopian worked her jaw for a moment. "Fine," she finally spat. "Charles and Sarah Bartowski, I hereby award you custody of Alejandra Maria Calijo and approve your adoption request."

She fixed the President with an evil glare. "This court is adjourned."

And as the gavel slammed down, a round of applause burst forth in the courtroom. Chuck turned to Sarah and wrapped her in a huge hug. She pulled back from him a little bit, and kissed him.

John and Maya Casey came up to them, each holding one of the toddlers. Lisa practically jumped into Chuck's arms, but little John was pointing toward the judge's chambers. "She's bad," he said somberly as Sarah took him.

"What do you mean, babe?" Sarah asked her almost three year-old son.

"The judge is Fulcrum," John said, a sad look on his face.

Chuck's jaw dropped, and he looked at Sarah. Shock registered on her face for a moment, and then she rolled her eyes.

"To hell with it," she said with a laugh. "Let's just go home."

**THE END**


End file.
